


Sons of the Morning

by Mango_Marbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: British Men of Letters, Gen, Original Character(s), Possessed Sam, Vessel Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-16 10:46:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mango_Marbles/pseuds/Mango_Marbles
Summary: Post Season 11 AU. The world is safe, but Dean is gone and Sam is left to face the British Men of Letters by himself. After a month as their captive, Lucifer's offer of peace sounds too good to refuse anymore.





	1. The Devil in Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
> 
> This is being cross-posted from ff.net. It is complete, but was written before the start of Season 12.

He no longer had the strength to hold his head up. Toni (he'd come to know her well over the past few weeks) jabbed him with that syringe of hers, depressing the plunger. Toni (it's nothing personal, she swore) repeated that simple action enough times that he wondered if there were tracks starting to line his arms. It was more discreet than the mass of burns from her blowtorch (she had a fetish for the thing, Sam swore). She was giving him the image of a drug-addict (what was this about demon blood, she wanted to know) pale, his body abused and malnourished, but it didn't matter. She just wanted to keep him alive long enough to get information he was unwilling to part with.

It lured him into sleep this time. He knew it would because it was the only time someone stood in the room without trying to enact their sick form of punishment for the lengthy list of his crimes. They tried to keep him asleep—even if that didn't always go according to plan—when they moved to a new location, when they felt the current abandoned shit hole they borrowed had served its purpose and it was filled with the stench of sweat, burning flesh, and blood. It wasn't worth dragging his uncooperative ass on a plane and hauling him to London.

The situation had to be bad if the only comfort he found was in the presence of Lucifer (180 years in Hell to keep Lucifer caged for less than 10 years in Earth time), wearing Nick as his meat suit, when he dream walked into Sam's head. He showed up every time Sam slept and his words sounded a little sweeter each time.

"Sam," he said, standing in front of the beaten warehouse door, "it's good to see you again." His voice was the same purr it was when he first contacted Sam, wanting to take his true vessel. When the words came out twisted from Jess' mouth and it was so real and so fake simultaneously. Just a beautiful illusion.

"I'm not letting you jump my bones again," Sam said, none of the pain his physical body felt reflected in his voice here.

"Sam. Sam. Sam. Why don't you work with me here? I need a body that won't deteriorate, and you don't have anything left worth living for."

At Sam's glare, he shrugged and swept his arms out to the side in a grand gesture. "Look around, Sammy," he said. "Is this what you want for the short remainder of your life? Warehouse after warehouse of questions that you can't—or don't want to—answer. Torture at the hands of an organization you were supposed to be a part of, just like your granddaddy. I can give you peace, Sam."

"Forgive me if I don't believe that you want to give me peace. You know, given our past and all."

Lucifer clasped his hands together and sighed. "Always the same argument. I know, we've had our problems, but we're on the same side here now. Think of all the times when I was in Castiel's body and didn't kill you, although I easily could have."

Sam snorted a laugh. "Yeah, that's comforting. What's going to stop you from kick starting another apocalypse?"

"That would require releasing Michael, and not to mention he couldn't hold up well in a fight these days. You know what Hell does. Michael, well, he's had a tough time being away from home."

"You destroyed plenty before Michael decided to come down from Heaven," Sam pointed out.

"Would it really matter to you what I did?" Lucifer asked. He walked around the chair to which Sam was tied. "Dad and I made up. I don't need an apocalypse to draw His attention now. I'll even promise not to hurt the few people left in this world that you care about. After all, I've never lied to you. Have I, Sam?"

"You haven't always told the entire truth though either."

"Are you not guilty of the same thing?"

When Sam stayed silent, Lucifer spoke again. "Well, I'll let you think on it some more. Somewhere in that oversized head—and yes, I would know since I've been in it—you know that this is the best choice for you. The only choice where you don't have to suffer living in a world without Big Brother Dean. So when you do figure it out, all you have to do is call to me. Then one little 'yes' will take away the pain."

Sam felt consciousness pull at him, but not before Lucifer managed to add in, "It's a good deal, Sam."

They kept him in the back of a van when transporting him to a new warehouse—or other dilapidated building suitable for an imprisoned hunter, which according to the Men of Letters, is the ultimate abomination. (Illiterate savages, in Toni's words.) It was hard, but if he stretched the right way, he could catch glimpses out of the windows in the front. Toni and the driver—whose name was never mentioned to Sam—didn't seem to care much if he saw the outside world. Being tired up and injured in the back, what threat could there be, right?

_Guess they never suspected that I would have an archangel offering to help._

Dean wouldn't want him to give up and let Lucifer ride him again, but Dean wasn't there. Dean would never be there again because he freaking blew up in front of God's sister to stop the world from ending. Billie probably came running to throw him into The Empty, beside herself in excitement to finally reap a Winchester.

"So, we almost to the next fun house?" Sam asked, not much more than a whisper, ignoring the stabs of pain from his ribs from every breath. It took a lot of energy for him to move these days, but at least talking was a little easier. When he thought about it, he had no idea if Toni shot him a week ago, or a month ago. Time blurred with the pain in the strange routine she'd set up for him.

Toni glared back at him from her place riding shotgun, all ice and calculation. The kind of woman immune to Dean's charm. If only he was here for her to turn down. "I'll make sure it's filled with trick mirrors and clowns. I've heard how much you love clowns," she said.

"In my experience, they kill people." A bump in the road jostled him around the back of the van and it took several controlled breaths of exhaust scented air to recompose himself. "Not that you would know, sitting around your little secret hideout all day and letting others do the real work."

"Preserving knowledge is the greatest work a human can do," she said. She stared straight ahead at the road, not giving him the respect of pretending he was more than a bug she wanted to crush underfoot. He was beneath them just for being a hunter. Being with them felt like meeting angels for the first time again, when all the angels saw was a boy with demon blood pumping through his veins. All the British Men of Letters saw was a savage who almost destroyed the world several times—they chose to ignore that he and his brother had also _saved_ it several times, but those were just minor details. The feeling was the same.

"You honestly believe that." It wasn't a question, because he already knew the answer.

"With a look at your history, I thought you would believe it as well," she said, going for the we're-on-the-same-side-I-swear approach. Again. "This doesn't have to be painful, just answer our questions."

"You don't believe me when I do."

"Maybe we would if you told the truth," she said. Every word that left her mouth was an accusation. A reminder that this wasn't a vacation or a field trip. It was an interrogation.

"Dean is dead! Do you really think I'd lie about that?" Sam demanded. The same question set off his temper every time: where is Dean?

"Yes," she said. So matter-of-fact. "You would, if it meant protecting him. You both have a reputation of being stupidly self-sacrificing for each other. You'd jump in front of a semi if it meant saving him from a paper cut."

Sam huffed out a laugh. "That far for a paper cut? What do you think I'd do to save him from stubbing his freaking toe?"

Toni refused to respond, so it was silent for a long time. Which meant no distraction from the old truck's lack of resistance against the rough road and the renewed pain each little bump brought.

But Sam Winchester had been through Hell, and he'd be damned if _this_ was what broke him.

" _I can give you peace, Sam."_

However, he was damned a long time ago. Ten years before he was born, to be exact.

_No hard feelings, Mom._

He strained to see the road they were on, looking for any signs on the side for a hint of where they were. Not to pray to Lucifer. Simply out of curiosity.

Just curiosity.

"You don't seem worried about me calling Cas," he said. "Nothing to keep away angels. Kind of arrogant, don't you think?"

"I don't believe your angel friend has enough power to track you down, especially not after working his way back to Earth," Toni said. She spared only a glance—condescending, of course. "It's well-known that there aren't any other angels fond enough of you Winchesters to help you out."

"No other angels willing to help me?" Sam asked. "Do you want to tell me where we are and test that out?"

That drew Toni's full attention to him. With her eyes narrowed, she took a long, silent moment to observe Sam, size up his threat. "What are you playing at?" she asked.

Sam managed the energy to smirk, wondering how long it would take him to slowly bleed out in the back of a shitty van. Dean would have fun with that. Sam could practically hear his words.

" _Really, Sam? You spend your life in Baby, just to die in some rust bucket? Your standards have taken a swan dive."_ Or something like that.

Maybe not. His thoughts blurred and it took a lot of effort to continue his attempts to rile Toni—who was apparently the Men of Letters' poster girl.

"You're the one with all the knowledge," Sam said. "And you have so much faith in that knowledge. I'm offering to test it."

" _Raphael's old vessel was a freaking vegetable, and he still has to live with being connected to the angel who ruined his life. If that's not incentive to say 'no', I don't know what is. And according to Cas, being Michael's bitch would leave me in even worse shape after."_

Even dead, Dean gave him the pieces he needed to finish a puzzle.

"You don't have all the knowledge," Sam whispered, to himself more than Toni. "Not about angels. Not about their vessels." He grinned at Toni and wondered what he must look like for her face to look so horrified and shocked. Night after night of chatting with Satan after day-in day-out interrogation, and he finally accepted the single end in sight. An end to all of it.

"Why don't you enlighten me, then?" she asked. Her voice wasn't cold and calculating anymore. She rushed her words out in panic and fear trying to sort out what situation she needed to deal with.

Sam sat up a little, ignoring the pain that wouldn't be there for much longer. He _felt_ it. That connection Dean told him vessels keep with their angel. So similar to tapping into his psychic abilities, just harder to find buried at the back of his mind. But once he broke into it, Lucifer's voice flooded his head.

" _You've made a decision?"_ he asked.

 _You'll keep your promise?_ If he was going to do something stupid, he was at least going to make it as safe as possible for the few friends he had left in the world.

Toni fumbled in the front seat for a knife and slashed it across her palm, trying to scribble the angel banishing sigil on the window.

" _You have my word that I won't harm the handful of people you actually care about,"_ he said.

"What are you doing?" Toni demanded. The rough road caused her to smudge her sigil and she cursed under her breath.

_Then, yes._

When Gadreel possessed him, Sam never noticed it. Perhaps that was due to the fact that his internal organs were scorched at the time and Dean had to trick him into saying 'yes'. With the only hint being that Sam woke up feeling better than he had months, there was no reason to question it. Maybe, once he decided to forgo the trials, their effects wore off. An easy explanation. Rational, even.

With Lucifer, he felt the possession. He felt the surge of power flood his body, but the sorrow along with it—the result of millennia spent thinking about his brother casting him down on the order of their father, who was without a good reason for taking such actions against him. The ultimate betrayal towards a son who loved his father more than anything. During his first possession by Lucifer, that very feeling—so unexpected—caught him off-guard and made his determination waver. It let Lucifer take control and close the hole in the wall leading to his cage.

This time, surprise wasn't needed. Sam willingly let Lucifer have free reign. He gave enough to the world over the years, and the world took the his sole remaining reason to live. Last time, Lucifer locked him inside his own mind.

Now, he allowed Sam to see. He'd never been able to observe his own actions while possessed when he was fighting the entity possessing him, and he certainly didn't expect it to be a peacefully detached experience. A sort of fever dream. He pretended that it wasn't his body moving without his control, that he was just having visions again and watching Lucifer from a first person point of view. He could pretend that he didn't just do exactly what Dean would never want, but Dean was in The Empty—if Billie the Reaper was to be believed—and they would never be arriving at the Heaven they were supposed to share anyway.

Lucifer broke through the bindings that kept Sam still with ease, wounds already healing. He sat up and leaned over the back of the car seats, placing himself between Toni and the driver—who wore equally horrified expressions.

Toni raised her bloodied hand towards the sigil, but it froze. She strained to turn her neck until Lucifer released his telekinetic grip on it and allowed her to face him.

"Now, now," he said. "Let's not get hasty here."

Sam heard his own voice, but those weren't his words. He never grew used to the feeling the first time Lucifer possessed him. He doubted he would adapt to it this time either.

The driver started to pull over, but Lucifer placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Keep driving."

White-knuckling the steering wheel, he did just that. Sam swore he heard the man whispering prayers under his breath, but it wouldn't help him.

Lucifer turned his attention back to a very still Toni. "Sam and I, we could manage to be friends. He gave me what I wanted, I can give him what he wants. Mutual benefits and all that. You and I, well, I don't think we can be friends. You scuffed my meat suit, Toni—it's Toni, isn't it? I'm using Sam's memories here."

"What do you want from me?" Toni ground out from between clenched teeth. "You can have it, whatever it is."

"But before you were so adamant about all your knowledge and getting answers to your questions. Although, as far as the memories in here show, Dean Winchester really is dead, so we can move past that one."

_Friends with Satan? What would Dean think now?_

" _Dean's dead, Sam. You made the right choice. You don't have to live in this world alone anymore. We can have some fun and make up for all those times in The Cage where we didn't exactly see eye-to-eye."_

"What angel would want to work with a Winchester other than the one I blasted back to Heaven?"

Lucifer ran a finger over her jawline, feeling her clench her teeth. "An angel who understands Sam better than anyone. We were both beloved sons who were left in isolation by their big brothers. Different circumstances, but the same outcome. The world beat us down. Guesses?"

"You can't be. They said you were caged!" Toni yelled. Her eyes were bright and wild with fear above her flushed cheeks.

"I _was_ caged," Lucifer corrected. "I got out, and you practically gift-wrapped my vessel for me. My _true_ vessel. So, thanks for that. Left him so desperate, he'd do anything to relieve the pain of a horrible world without Big Brother."

"Impossible."

Lucifer swept his arms to the side in a clearly-it-is-possible-because-here-I-am gesture.

"What do you want?"

Sam had to give credit to the driver for keeping mostly silent aside from his whispers and being able to pay enough attention to the road to not crash in this situation. Not every day you get to play chauffeur for Satan.

"Maybe I'll go to L.A. and solve crimes," he said. The same plan he gave Sam in the cage that wasn't _The Cage_. "It doesn't matter to you as you won't be here long enough to find out."

With a flick of his wrist, Toni's neck snapped along with the invisible grip keeping her still. She slumped in her seat. Her hand smeared blood against the door as it fell and her eyes stared blankly forwards.

He took a long look at the driver, who managed to keep his focus on the road despite his worryingly pale skin and his trembling, well, everything.

"Guess it's your lucky day," Lucifer said. He pat the driver's cheek twice and spread his wings.

The world blurred, and Sam saw the top of Big Ben in the distance before everything went black.

* * *

He regained awareness in the Men of Letters' bunker, the place he and Dean called 'home'. He glanced at his watch for the time, but its hands were frozen in place.

When he looked up from his watch, Lucifer leaned against the arched entrance to the library as Nick.

"Hey, Sam. Thought you'd like something familiar," he said.

"We're not actually here," Sam said. "This is inside my head. I'm dreaming."

"Sort of. I assumed you didn't want to see what became of the British Men of Letters."

Sam thought back to Big Ben. "We're in England?"

"For the moment. Physically."

"What's your end game?" Sam asked. "Why the sudden helpful attitude and lack of threats about bringing another apocalypse? It doesn't make sense."

"You're a son," Lucifer said, pushing off of the archway and stepping closer. "You're a brother. I know you understand how arguments in families can be."

" _You walk through that door, don't bother coming back."_

"I was a brother and a son. Was. Just get to the point, please."

Lucifer shrugged. "You forced me to talk it out with Daddy Dearest, and we came to an understanding. Or as close to one as we could." He grabbed a chair and spun it around before sitting, resting his arms on its back. "The apocalypse was about proving a point to Him, but He admitted to His mistakes. Hell, _I_ maybe made mistakes and admitted it in that forced therapy session you and your brother gave us. Dad healed me. He forgave me. I'm just going clean up my mess."

"And you need your vessel for that."

"Like I said, it's not a bad deal for you. I can make this little world in the back of your mind whatever you want it to be. An eternity with Dean. You'll never have to face his death."

"Meanwhile, you'll use my body for what exactly?" Sam asked. He took a seat and rested his forearms on his knees. "I just want to know what I'm being used for before I completely agree."

"Or what? You'll throw me out?"

"I've beat you before."

"You had Dean."

Sam broke their stare down to look at his hands. Lucifer was right, and he knew it was too late to go back on becoming his vessel once again. The only difference was that the world wasn't at stake this time. Sam wasn't sure anything was at stake this time. Angels tended to keep their promises, when they made them and when they weren't being feathery douche bags.

 _Sympathizing with the devil, what would Dean think?_ _He'd be livid. Guess you'll have to come beat some sense in me yourself, Dean._

"I had followers—angels who rebelled with me—who were also cast into Hell by Michael's host," Lucifer said. He wore a sad smile to hide cruelty beneath it, which Sam saw more times than he cared to count in The Cage. "I'm going to take care of that problem. That's all. Killing some fallen angels who will never reconcile with our Father—who apparently goes by 'Chuck' these days."

"After that? You kill some fallen angels, and then what?"

Lucifer shook his head. "I don't know yet. It will take time to track all of them down. They are foolish, but not foolish enough to paint the targets on their own backs."

"And that entire time, I'll just be here?" Sam asked. "Trapped in my own mind?"

"More like vacationing in your own mind," Lucifer corrected. "Spend long enough here, and you won't even remember that it's not real."

Sam bounced one leg on the ball of his foot. He ran a hand over his face.

"You'd just off yourself anyway if you were in control of your own body. You're a mess without your big brother."

"No, I wouldn't," Sam said, but the words sounded weak.

Lucifer took a moment of silence to watch Sam with his damned pitying grin. "No, maybe you wouldn't. At least, not with your own hands. But you don't have a reason to not throw yourself into hunts. You don't have a reason to avoid exceptionally reckless behavior."

Sam clenched his jaw and felt his teeth grind against each other. His decision was made in the back of that truck when he let Lucifer back in and it was too late to change his mind now. Just another regret that he had to hope wouldn't end in disaster. An eternal dream, or eternal nothingness in The Empty?

"This really is for the best. For both of us."

Lucifer vanished. No flutter of wings or any other sign signaling the end of his visit. He didn't expect the loneliness it brought.

At least his isolation lasted only a minute before Dean walked into the room with his million watt grin. "Heya, Sammy."

* * *

_Roughly four weeks earlier:_

The sun hung high in the sky by the time Dean managed to convince his mother that he was her son and she had been dead for decades, but resurrected as a favor for Dean, and then find and hot wire a car. He spent the car ride trying to fill in the many, many blanks of what happened since her death.

_The demon who killed you is dead. Shot him myself, but Dad and Sam were there, too._

_Sam saved the world, Mom. You woulda been so proud. I was. We can get into the details later, after you've had time to adjust._

He left out the part about meeting her dad. Not many great memories there.

_You know Purgatory's a real place?_

_Angels_ were _watching over us. Not in the way you imagined, though._

He skipped over the worst things, like Hell and all the times either one of them died only to be brought back. She'd learn about all of it eventually, but hearing an abridged version would be better for now with how much about this strange new world she has to learn.

_You know, Dad never took his wedding ring off. Wore it right up to the day he died._

He led her into the bunker feeling better than he had in years. "C'mon, Mom," he said. "Time to meet Sam. He's the gentle giant type. I'd bet anything that he's sitting around the library right now doing research."

Mary returned her smile. "Well," she said, "don't keep me waiting. Didn't your father teach you manners?"

Dean shared a laugh with her, unaware of how close he was to finding his world shattered again.


	2. Blood on the Floor

_The first week after the world didn't end:_

Dean felt like a kid on Christmas morning (a normal kid who celebrated with a tree and real gifts not stolen or from the nearby Gas 'n Sip) when he walked through the bunker door with his mom trailing behind him. A thousand scenarios played through his mind in a matter of seconds. A heartfelt reunion. Explaining to Sam why he's very much still alive. Endless possibilities for where his life would head next, not caring much about the details as long as he had his little family with him.

The clang of his boots against the metal stairs rang through the room and he yelled, "Sammy, get your ass out here!"

"Dean?"

He expected Sam's confused, whisper voice. The one he used when he didn't quite believe something despite the proof being right in front of him. Instead, his name was spoken by the gravelly, monotonous voice of Cas, who stood in the doorway between the map room and the library.

Dean reached the bottom of the steps and grinned. "Hey, Cas. Sam moping in his room?" Dean asked. "He should know it ain't that easy to get rid of me."

Mary wandered through the map room, pausing to shake Cas' hand and say, 'Mary Winchester, nice to meet you' before moving on. (Dean wished he had the foresight to take a picture of her face when Cas introduced himself as 'Castiel, Angel of the Lord'. She took it in stride, but probably thought he escaped from some mental hospital.) She looked around with the same awe that Dean felt when he first entered the bunker before she stopped and stared at the tiled floor a few paces from the stairs. "Is this blood?" she asked.

Dean knelt next to her in an instant and wondered how he could've missed seeing a dried puddle of blood. Out of every scenario he imagined, none of them involved dried blood.

"Dean, I'm so sorry," Cas said.

Dean looked over and saw an altered version of the angel banishing sigil on the wall next to Cas, now a rusted color instead of a fresh bright red. "What the hell happened, Cas? Where's Sam?"

_He's fine. He's just moping somewhere. This isn't happening._

Worry made the situation too real, so he defaulted to hiding it with anger. Was this some twisted price Amara didn't mention? He could have his mom alive and well, but she'd have to take Sam for it?

"There was a woman waiting for us when we got here," Cas said. "She was prepared and banished me before either of us knew what was going on. I don't know what happened after that."

"So this," Dean said, gesturing to the floor, "is Sam's?"

"Most likely."

He prepared himself to comfort his mother. It had to be hard to have her last memory be rushing into Sam's nursery because a demon stood over his crib (bleeding into his mouth, but that was a whole different issue unknown at the time and Dean was pretty sure Mary didn't know that bit of information), only to follow it up with the realization that Sam was now about thirty years older, missing, and wounded.

When he turned and met her eyes, the intensity reflected back to him, he almost took a step back and was left speechless. Those weren't the eyes of a mourning woman on the verge of tears—which Dean was silently thankful for. They were the eyes of someone on a mission, and God help whoever got in the way. (Or Chuck help them, but Dean wasn't about to ponder whether or not every phrase with 'God' in it needed to be adjusted right now. Bigger fish to fry, missing brothers to find, and all that.)

Mary Winchester was _pissed_. She stood up straight and carefully stepped around the blood to face Cas. "What do we know?" she demanded.

Dean never imagined he could be this frightened by a woman wearing a long, white nightgown with soft blonde curls falling to her shoulders. Glad it wasn't directed at him, he made a mental note to get some actual clothes for her because running around in a nightgown would attract far too much attention on their hunt for Sam.

"It happened two days ago at the most," Cas said. "Time flows a little differently in Heaven, so returning to Earth after a banishment disturbs the concept of it. I just made it back here shortly before you arrived."

Dean grabbed a glass left sitting on the map table—probably leftover from one of many long nights spent researching—and threw it against the wall. It shattered in a rain of glittering shards. "How could this happen?" he yelled. He never realized how long it took him to go from playing family counselor with God and His sister, to wandering the woods with his mother, and finally to arrive at the bunker. He never thought that anything bad would happen while he was finding his way back. Maybe a bit of mourning for him, but definitely not any kidnappings.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Sam should have been safe at the bunker with Cas, and then pleasantly surprised when Dean showed up with _their mother_ in tow. They were supposed to spend the night telling Mary what she missed since November 2, 1983. They could laugh—maybe cry a bit at the bad memories and never admit to it—and have a few stiff drinks.

They could be a family. Only now a vital member was missing.

_Less than a week alone, and he's already causing problems. I should've been there._

"Who knows about this bunker?" Mary asked.

Dean shook his head and started pacing. "There shouldn't have been anyone here who Cas wouldn't recognize."

His mind started up a mantra of _Sammy's missing. Sammy's hurt._

"How did she even get in?" Dean asked. "The bunker keys are kept by Men of Letters."

"Could she have been one?"

Dean glanced at Cas before answering his mom, the body count during her absence only rising, but Cas wouldn't meet his eyes. Dean trusted him to look after Sam before he went to face off against Amara, and he couldn't do it. "Mom," Dean said, "Sam and I are the first Men of Letters in decades. A Knight of Hell named Abaddon slaughtered them."

"And then she followed Henry here," Cas said. He stared at the sigil and ran his fingertips over it, a little too intently. He looked less ashamed with something else to focus on, and Dean knew that he shouldn't be angry. He knew it wasn't Cas' fault that this strange woman knew what she was doing and how to get Sam alone and spirit him away.

But damn did he want to blame Cas.

He wanted to blame Cas, himself, Sam, Henry (for ever introducing them to the Men of Letters), Abaddon, Amara, Chuck, the mystery woman. He just wanted someone to blame, because it was easier to blame and be angry than to think about the dried blood on the ground and where Sam was. What was being done to him.

Dean needed something to kill, and he wanted it to be the woman who took his brother from him.

"I'm going to go medieval bloody eagle on this bitch once we find her," Dean yelled. He kicked the leg of the map table, ending his pacing. He mumbled an insincere apology to Mary for his outburst.

"Oh, don't apologize, Dean," she said. "She hurt my son. She's hurt both of my sons."

Dean stared into the face of Mary the Hunter. Her eyes burned with the same anger and determination he felt, only much better controlled. This was the Mary he met in 1973, before her demon deal with Azazel. The one who could hold her own with him in a fight (but if there was any woman Dean would lose a fight to, he'd want it to be his mom).

Cas stepped into the library, looking over the books all neatly lining the shelves. "Dean, do you know if the Men of Letters kept records of their members?" he asked.

"I don't know. Probably. Why?" _Sam would know._

Cas shook his head. "Just an idea. Maybe there's something in their records that we're missing."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Another bunker or hideout. Members that Henry didn't mention. Anything," Cas said.

Dean took a deep breath and ran his hand over his hair. He needed to be out on the road physically searching out Sam, not holed up in a bunker pouring over ancient books. A gentle hand on his arm and a reassuring squeeze brought his temper down. He remembered his mother as loving and warm. He remembered her as a young, strong hunter in her own right, but he never imagined that she'd have to be strong for his sake. He was the man of the family and he should be the strong one. The protector. The shoulder to lean on.

But Winchesters never were ones to follow the rules.

"We'll find Sammy," Mary said, her voice steady and strong. "I promise."

* * *

Castiel (the angel—it was hard no to believe him when he vanished with a soft flutter—who really was watching over her boys) left to check out a possible lead on his own, so Mary found herself sitting at a table across from her grown son (who should still be four in her mind) reading through records of an organization whose existence she learned about less than an hour ago.

Dean found several record books that went back far longer than either of them imagined. The Men of Letters were far more ancient than expected, but they were nothing if not thorough in their record keeping. The result was a table half covered in stacks of books—leather-bound and thicker than her fist.

She took a book from one stack and flipped it open, her actions mirrored by Dean, and started reading through an endless array of names and pictures belonging to people she didn't know and would likely never know, aside from whichever ones were involved with taking Sam. None of them stuck out to her, but she focused more on glancing up at Dean. Part of her still had trouble accepting that this was real. She expected that the next time she goes to sleep, she'll wake up back in 1983 and everything will be right again. She'll be able to bond with her sons as they grow and never feel like a stranger.

He kept his jaw clenched tight and ran his hand over his short hair every few minutes. She heard him bouncing his leg on the ball of his foot. Nervous ticks, just like John's. In fact, she saw a lot of her late husband in her son, and her heart ached at all she missed.

After about an hour, her patience wore out. She admired his worry for his little brother and that John managed to instill such a strong familial bond between them, she did. But damn if those little ticks weren't about to drive her up the wall. It felt like high school all over again with the bored kids entertaining themselves through little repetitive actions.

"Dean," she said, "it's going to be alright."

He snapped his attention to her and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. You're shoved into the middle of a world that's completely different from the one you remember, most of the people you knew are dead, and your sons are adults now. I can't imagine what you must be feeling or how many questions you have, and _you're_ the one trying to comfort _me_."

Mary shrugged and exchanged her book for the next one on the pile she worked with. "We might be little more than strangers, but I'm still your mother. It's my job to comfort my child, whether you're four or forty."

"I'm not forty," he grumbled, looking genuinely offended.

"It just wasn't supposed to be like this," Dean whispered. Mary almost didn't catch the words, but they came out so heartbroken, she didn't think they were meant for her to hear, not that she didn't agree with them herself.

She stood up and gave Dean's shoulder a few pats. "You have a kitchen, don't you? I'll make some coffee," she said. She waved her hand at all of the books. "It looks like we're going to be in for a long night."

Dean, very reluctantly, let her leave with directions to the kitchen and the location of everything needed to make a pot of coffee. She understood his hesitancy, uncertain if she'd want someone who had been dead for decades out of her sight either for fear they wouldn't come back.

She hated herself for the fact that having a few walls separating her from Dean came as a relief. She rested her head on the table and listened to the drip, drip, drip of fresh coffee slowing filling up the pot. While she stayed strong for Dean, strong was the last thing she felt. So many years passed, but it felt like just yesterday Dean was a curious, energetic four-year-old and Sammy was just a baby.

Her husband was dead.

Her tears flowed silently, hidden by a cradle formed by her forearms around her head. She mourned for John and the friends she must have lost over the years. She mourned for her sons, who were forced into the life she tried to escape. She mourned for herself, full of regrets and pulled into a world she no longer understood. A world where she no longer belonged.

When the coffee stopped dripping and the pot was full, her tears were gone and she walked back to Dean with two steaming mugs. She wouldn't burden her son with her problems when he already looked like the world was ending. A renewed fire burned through her veins. She missed out on being Mary Winchester, loving wife and mother of two boys.

But she could still be Mary Winchester, natural born hunter with a self-imposed responsibility to track down and hurt those who hurt her sons.

And they would know pain.

* * *

The gunshot wound kept him from attempting to escape through the car ride, subsequent stop, and relocation from trunk to chair. He was pretty sure that the bullet was still embedded in his leg, which someone wrapped in white (formerly) bandages at some point between the bunker and the warehouse in which they chained him to a chair. He assumed they drugged him at some point, but between the confusion and pain it was hard to tell what exactly happened after Cas was banished.

Two men flanked either side of Toni, and it was clear she was in charge. Despite their muscular builds, Sam figured his chances to escape with them present would have been good if he wasn't injured. The truck they moved him in only had a driver, who chose to stay in his seat behind the wheel, and Toni besides himself. If those two men were trailing behind in another vehicle, it might be easier for someone to track him.

_Who's left to come for you?_

That thought hurt more than being shot, a wound straight to the soul, and he watched as they propped up a fold-up table in front of Sam and set a chair across from it. Toni sat perfectly straight and laid her hands neatly—one on top of the other—on the tabletop.

"Sam Winchester," she said with a smile, not at all kind, "my name is Antonia Bevell. The old man at the Men of Letters London Chapter has a lot of questions he wants you to answer. I'm here on his behalf to make sure he gets those answers."

Sam grinned at her. "You've got the wrong guy. I don't have any answers to give you."

"Now isn't the time to try being funny, Sam," she warned.

"Why? Are you going to kill me?"

She pursed her lips and waited a moment, the look of a predator sizing up its prey. "This doesn't have to be a painful affair. If you cooperate, there won't be pain at all."

Sam rolled his eyes and fought a smirk at Toni's thinly veiled irritation at it. "I'm not going to talk. Might as well just kill me now and get it over with."

_I'm already dead in all the ways that matter._

"We aren't going to kill you," she said. "But you'll wish you were dead."

_Too late for you to be the cause of that wish._

"So the Grand Dragon back across the pond is okay with torture, but killing is going too far?"

"Are you comparing the Men of Letters to the KKK, Mr. Winchester?"

"Oh, no. Not at all," Sam said. "The KKK would have been easier to deal with. They would just kill me. Painfully, maybe, but quicker than this _affair_ , as you put it."

Toni cleared her throat. "Well, you've had your fun. Let's get started. Where is your brother, Dean Winchester?"

"Dead."

"Unlikely."

"Why ask questions if you don't believe my answers?"

"You would lie to protect your brother," Toni said. So matter-of-fact.

They continued in the same pattern. Toni asked a question. Sam gave an answer. Toni didn't believe him. (To be fair, most of his answers were lies, so he would give her that.)

Eventually she sighed and gestured to one of the men acting as her muscle. One of them dug through a black bag they carried in with them before he turned back to face them and laid a filled syringe in front of her on the table. "I did so hope you would be cooperative," she said, nodding at the syringe. "Scopolamine and morphine."

Sam's face pinched in confusion, the constant throb of the bullet in his thigh forgotten for now. "That hasn't been used in years, and it was never proven to be accurate."

"Perhaps not," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean it's not worth trying. Why? Are you afraid a little truth serum might loosen your tongue?"

* * *

Sam came to in the back of the truck. His vision refused to clear no matter how many times he pressed his eyes shut and he had no memories of what happened after Toni picked up the syringe. "What the hell just happened?" he asked.

Toni glared back at him from the front seat.

"What?" he demanded. "What did I do?"

"The truth serum turned you into a drooling mess who babbled a litany of nonsense," she said. She fought to keep her voice even, but Sam caught the strain of anger hidden behind each word.

He relaxed and laid his head back down, hoping it will help stop the world from spinning. "Told you it wouldn't help."

A Top 40 radio drummed an up-beat, head-splitting song through the speakers. No wonder he didn't remember what happened. Scopolamine: once used as a truth serum because it wiped the memory of the interrogation, and the memories of prior events. But if he remembered Toni picking up the syringe, what made her wait so long before administering the serum?

Despite the bottled headache masquerading as music (which would have been the worst torture they could have put Dean through had he been alive for it), Sam fell asleep.

He was in a motel room. He might have been in it before, or it could be a new motel he's never visited. After a long enough time, they all look the same anyway. Out of instinct, he looked at the other bed and found it empty. Dean's gone.

_Dean's dead._

He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling and hoping it was all just a bad dream. He hoped that at any minute Dean would burst through the door with his larger-than-life personality and an announcement that he's hustled enough to cover expenses for the next few hunts. Hell, he'd settle for a half-hearted apology from Dean for going home with a woman and forgetting to let Sam know he'd be back late.

"Hey, Sam."

Sam sat up, Dean's name half spoken, only to find himself face-to-face with Lucifer standing at the foot of his bed. "I'm hallucinating again."

"If you consider dreams as hallucinations, sure."

" _This_ is the dream." It wasn't a question, but it answered a question he was afraid to ask.

Lucifer sat on the other bed—Dean's bed—and shrugged with a well-what-are-you-gonna-do expression (180 years trapped with someone left a lot of time to learn what every expression of theirs meant). "I'm glad you're in a real dream this time. Not the drug-induced mess like earlier."

"Is that why Toni called me a babbling mess? Because you were trying to talk to me?"

Lucifer nodded. "A little angelic interference. It's difficult to tell the difference between natural dreams and drug induced half-dreams."

"Twilight sleep," Sam said. "So the whole London Chapter Men of Letters thing is real."

"Is that who is doing this?" Lucifer asked. "They've got you in a real bind, don't they?"

"Does it matter?" Sam asked. Then, "Didn't Amara kill you?"

"She forcibly ejected me from Castiel's vessel. It didn't kill me, but that doesn't mean it wasn't incredibly painful. And it does matter."

Sam shook his head with a mirthless laugh. "Yeah? To you?"

"Yes, I can help you, Sam. If you let me."

"Not happening. I don't need your help, and I don't want help from you."

"I can feel your pain, and you don't have Dean to back you up this time," he said. "Think about it. I'll be around."

Lucifer vanished and left Sam alone in a cheap motel room where he could spend the rest of his dream waiting for the return of a brother who would never be coming back.

* * *

" _Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean. This is great"_

_Sam gave him a hug, which happened less and less often as he grew up. He never said it (he should have said it), but July 4, 1996 was one of the best nights of his life. Just him and Sam doing something normal for once. Back when Sam was still Sammy and looked up to Dean like he had all the answers in the world (physically looked up to him, too)._

_Dean kept a hand on Sam's shoulder after he pulled away from the hug, and they stood watching fireworks color the sky with bright light. Neither of them said anything else, content to stay silent. Always the type to speak through actions instead of words._

_They stayed like that for maybe ten minute, maybe an hour (Dean didn't keep track), but it was the kind of moment that he knew he should enjoy while it lasted. The kind he wished could last forever._

_He noticed one of the trees catch fire and herded Sam into the Impala. They drove off laughing down an empty road, the excitement in Sam's eyes reminding Dean why he worked so hard hunting. Save innocents. Save Sammy._

"Hello, Dean."

"Cas!" Dean was awake and shaking Cas by his shoulders before the coffee mug he bumped off the table even hit the ground. "What the hell took you so long?"

"I found a lead on Sam," Cas said.

Mary finally lifted her head from the open book she used as a pillow and pressed the heels of her hands into her hands. "Time to go then."

Dean pressed his thumb and forefinger into his tear ducts—trying to ward off the effects of an attempted all-nighter, too much caffeine, too little sleep, and using an old book as a pillow. Like mother, like son.

"Maybe you should stay here, Mom," Dean said.

The look Mary gave him brought his fear of a woman wearing a nightgown to a new level. He was a four-year-old again with the upside-down stomach feeling of knowing he's in trouble and waiting for punishment to be doled out. He doubted it would be something like "crayons aren't for drawing on your baby brother".

She marched to stand in front of him and jabbed her finger at his chest to accent each word. "I will _not_ sit around in this bunker while you go looking for Sammy. He is _my_ son, and I will be just as involved as you."

Even though he stood taller than her these days, he felt small. As much as he wanted her in the bunker and protected, he knew the look in her eyes. He knew they were the same as his, filled with guilt and regrets. The result of endless variations on "I should've..." and "What if…?"

She wasn't as okay as she let on, but Dean knew he couldn't call her out on it. Not right now. Later, but they had other things to worry about first. He just hoped that they could both keep it together long enough to find Sam. Then, they could all have a grand family breakdown for all he cared, as long as they were all alive and together.

"You're in a nightgown," was the best of the feeble excuses he could give.

Mary shrugged. "Appearance drops a few notches on the priority list when you have children."

"It doesn't involve going anywhere," Cas said, stopping both of them before they reached the stairs. "At least, not yet."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Dean demanded. "Whoever took my brother now has a three day headstart on us."

"We had the wrong book," Cas said.

Dean noticed the thick, leather-bound book Cas held, not unlike those scattered half-open on one of the library's tables. "And that's the right book?" Dean asked. He took it from Cas and started to flip through the pages.

"It was the wrong records you two were looking through. These are the Men of Letters London Chapter's member records. A chapter that still lives, along with all the other chapters of other countries. I went through it before coming here." Cas nodded at the book. "Look up 'Antonia Bevell'."

Dean didn't bother sparing Cas a glance and found her record in the book, which he was thankful was ordered alphabetically. Mary hovered over his shoulder to see the pages. "Bevell, Antonia," he read. "Okay. Is she the one we're looking for?"

"I'm sure of it. The woman in that picture is the one who was here," Cas said.

Dean closed the book and set it on the table. "At least with a name, it'll be easier to track her. How'd you find this, Cas?"

"A couple of my brothers owed me favors," he said.

Dean wasn't sure if it was the hesitance in his words, the way he said them, or the way he wouldn't maintain eye contact while saying them that set off Dean's suspicion. Cas was hiding something from him, but it was just another issue he'd have to put on his list to bring up later because no matter _how_ Cas got it, he did get information that will help them find Sam.

Priorities.

"So now we get to tracking and hope she's left a paper trail for us to follow," Dean said. "I'm sure Sammy won't be upset if we borrow his laptop if it meant helping him."

He headed towards Sam's room, when Mary grabbed his arm and stopped him. He turned to meet her eyes and she said, "John raised you well. I'll make more coffee and bring you some, okay?"

The mix of regret and pride bleeding into her words explained all the things she wanted to say in that first sentence. The one with meaning she wanted to mask with a simple offer of coffee after it. 'John raised you well as a hunter.' 'John raised you well without me.' 'I wish I could have been there to help raise you.'

Dean accepted her words with a nod and continued on his way to Sam's room.

_John didn't make me into the man I am today. He may have helped, but it was Sammy in the end. It was always Sammy._

* * *

_Present time (beginning of the second month after the world didn't end):_

Las Vegas.

Sin City.

The perfect place for certain fallen angels to bide their time while they waited for the return of their lord. The lord for whom they threw away their place in Heaven to follow. The lord who thought of them as nothing more than fools willing to cast their lot with anyone brave enough to say 'no' to their Father. To anyone brave enough to commit the greatest blasphemy and fight their Father's wishes.

Lucifer stepped into the strip club (an epileptic's nightmare with all of the flashing lights) and sat at a table tucked in the corner. It was already occupied, but he wasn't bothered by the man in a freshly-pressed cherry red suit with his long hair slicked back through the use of too much hair gel.

The difference in their dress _did_ bother him slightly (what was with the lumberjack look, Sam?), but there was no rush for him to go through the trouble of finding a suit for himself (or for Sam? For both? Sometimes dressing for two was confusing.). At least he thought ahead and found clean clothes to replace the bloody, torn, singed mess Sam had on when he possessed him.

_We should pay Castiel a visit. Haven't seen him in weeks, I imagine he's still worried about you. What do you think, Sammy? Oh, that's right. You're too busy hunting with fake Dean in your dream world. More fun for me, then._

The man in the cherry red suit sent off the stripper giving him a lap dance with a folded fifty dollar bill. "Lucifer. My lord. My king. I've been waiting for a long time for you to return and seek us out," he said.

"Zepar," Lucifer greeted, "we have a lot to talk about."


	3. Supposed to Be a Hero

_Present time (one month after the world didn't end):_

"'For if God did not spare angels when they sinned, but cast them into hell and committed them to chains of gloomy darkness to be kept until the judgment,'" Lucifer recited. "How well do you know the bible, Zepar?"

"Well enough to know that's from Peter."

"Correct," Lucifer said. He turned to the woman next to Zepar in a skin-tight dress covered in rhinestones who joined them shortly after his arrival. "Sorry, Naamah, I don't have a piece of Bible trivia for you."

She shrugged one of her bare, pale shoulders, exposed with her hair kept high on her head with the help of a series of pins and elastic bands. "That's quite alright," she said. "Trivia isn't the kind of game I enjoy."

"You both have sinned and now it's time to be judged," Lucifer said.

The easy-going attitude of Zepar and Naamah faded. They shared a puzzled look laced with a subtle fear. "Our only sin was following a sinner and our Father has been absent for centuries upon centuries, Lucifer. Why would we face judgment now?" Zepar asked.

Lucifer remembered the early days after his fall, and the outrage of the angels who fell with him. Outraged on his behalf. He watched them from his prison, most still loyal and content to lead humanity to sin while they waited for him to be freed and seek them out once again. Some stayed in Hell and twisted human souls into demons. These two had a partnership from the beginning, complimenting each other's strengths, and joined those who left Hell and made Earth their playground. Zepar took charge most times, but Naamah wasn't one to be underestimated.

Zepar fooled women by taking the form of a man they loved. Naamah gave birth to demonic children who became plagues.

"Our Father came out of hiding to face his sister. You remember Auntie Amara, or was that a little before your time?"

"Amara was just a story," Naamah said, dismissing her just as the younger angels were taught to do.

"Oh, she is very real, but she's not the point of this," Lucifer said. "Dad is. He and I had a moment. Something of a revelation for both of us. Now, I have a mess of fallen angels to clean up. I'm here to ask both of you to reconcile with Him as I did and reclaim your places in Heaven."

Zepar crushed his drink. The glass shards pierced his hand, but he paid them no mind. "We gave up everything for you, Lucifer. We waited for you, and now you've only come back to betray us?" he demanded.

Naamah's face twisted into a grotesque mockery of its original beautiful state in her anger. Soft edges of her face turned hard and her eyes narrowed to predatory slits. "You're joking, Lucifer," she said. "You must be."

"You call me a traitor and liar, but I've never been either," Lucifer said, keeping his voice soft and calm. "The only thing I have ever been—the only thing I will ever be—is a son who loves his Father more than anything. I could not love humanity more than Him, because nothing deserves more love than He does."

Zepar slammed his fist on the table, drawing the attention of nearby patrons too drunk to spare more than a moment in their direction. "He had Michael cast you into Hell!"

"He couldn't bear to do it Himself, but He thought He had to. He thought that I would ruin His creation, and He was right. I'm not about to disappoint Him again. Besides, I wasn't the only son hurt by it. Michael hated his orders, but he followed through anyway."

"We will not return to a Father who was blind to what we wanted. To what we needed," Naamah said. "We will not return to a Father who cast the son He allegedly loved the most into Hell in order to preserve His creation that is so fond of sin."

Zepar nodded in agreement with Naamah. "You don't have to crawl back to Him, Lucifer. You two have one heart-to-heart, and suddenly none of it happened? This is madness. He's corrupted your mind. Don't you remember what Isaiah wrote? 'How thou art fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!' You fell, Lucifer. Fallen angels stay fallen."

"I had hoped we could be reasonable, but I know both of you. Have known both of you for long enough to know that you get set in your ways, and no one can change that. It's regrettable," Lucifer said, "but this is going to end messily."

He stood and his archangel blade slid into his hand from his sleeve. "I _am_ sorry it's come to this."

Zepar stared into his eyes, defiant to the end. The look of a man who knew what happened next, and accepted it. "No, Lucifer," he said. "I don't believe you've ever truly been sorry for anything."

* * *

_The second week after the world didn't end:_

_When he pulled on the Superman costume, he had no delusions that it made him Superman or a superhero in anyway. He certainly didn't feel like a hero when he let Sammy jump off the shed because he thought Batman could fly._

_At nine, he knew better._

_At five, Sam didn't._

_But at age five, Sam wanted to do everything big brother did. Sometimes big brother forgot that he could do things Sam couldn't yet._

_Like jump off of a shed and not break his arm._

_He could barely see where he was biking with Sam on the handlebars, doing his best not to cry and squirm, but he made it to the emergency room in what felt like record time._

_He answered the questions he could. Name. What happened. Where their parents were. Then, the nurses pulled Sam away from him for x-rays with promises that they'll see each other again in a matter of minutes. But Sam wouldn't have any of it and Dean had to follow them back and stand outside of the room calling out reassurances to keep Sam calm._

_Another nurse settled them in a room to wait for the doctor, the pain in Sam's arm controllable as long as he kept it still. (Which was a tall order for five-year-old Sam who seemed to already know there was a lot to learn in the world and little time to learn it.) Dean forgot they were still in their costumes until she commented before leaving, "You wore the right outfit, sweetheart. You were Sam's superhero today."_

_Dean opened his mouth to respond, but didn't get the chance when Sam cut him off._

" _Dean's my superhero everyday," he informed the nurse._

_Dean looked at him, whatever response he was going to give the nurse long forgotten, and Sam gave him a grin of scattered missing teeth._

He woke up slowly, unwilling to let reality drain away the warm memories his dream brought. But it was inevitable and left him wondering why he only thought of the good memories when Sam was in danger. When he was at risk at never having an opportunity to make new memories with Sam.

"You awake?" Mary asked. She sat at the motel's tiny table with Sam's laptop in front of her. Dean showed her how to use it, and now she spent all of her spare time finding out what she missed over the years.

The patchy trail left behind by Toni gave them enough time to stop and get her real clothes, and the night she found her own obituary, she burned her nightgown saying she didn't want to keep what she died in.

Dean sat up. "Yeah." He looked at the time. "Why'd you let me sleep so late?"

Mary smiled, shutting the laptop and packing it away. "You needed some sleep, Dean. You're wearing yourself down too much. Besides, you looked like you were having a nice dream."

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, but more like nice memories."

He didn't elaborate. Mary didn't ask.

They were in the Impala and on the road within an hour, heading to the latest city with a purchase by a credit card under the name 'Antonia Bevell'.

"She really wasn't concerned about being tracked by humans," Dean commented. "Don't you think that's weird?"

"A little, but when your world revolves around the supernatural, humans become the least of your worries," she said.

Dean drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. "Do you think she might not working alone?" he asked. "I mean, she took precautions against everything else and we only got her name because Cas called in a favor. Maybe the Men of Letters sent back up with her. I know you haven't seen him yet, but there's no way one girl could move a wounded, unwilling Sam. Freakin' giant."

He saw Mary's ghost of a smile out of the corner of his eye, proud of himself for being the cause of it.

"It would have been the smart thing to do," she said. "And we know that it was all planned. She—or they—knew where to be, when, and what to do."

"But why didn't Cas see them? He said it was just Antonia."

"He also said that she banished him almost immediately. He might not have had the time to notice anyone else in the room."

Dean fought the urge to bash his forehead against the wheel. "Which still doesn't help us if we don't have names or pictures."

"Hello, Dean," Cas said, appearing in the back seat.

Dean, used to this by now, didn't swerve in surprise anymore, but he did fight a laugh when he saw Mary jump a bit in her seat. "Got anything useful, Cas?" he asked.

"Just a series of dead ends," Cas said. "I'm sorry."

"Can't you call in another favor with whoever gave you the info on the London Chapter?"

"Dean, that's not a good idea."

"And why the hell not?"

"The supernatural world thinks you're dead, Dean. If you keep it that way, you'll be safer. If I keep calling in favors about Sam, it will raise suspicions."

"Maybe he's right, Dean," Mary said. "I want to find Sammy just as much as you do, but it's hard enough keeping on this trail, and it'll be harder if we have to keep watching our own backs, too."

_He's lying through his angel teeth, Mom. You just can't see it._

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said.

"Dean—"

"It's been over a week!" Dean yelled, losing his hold on his temper. "Over a week, and Sam is God knows where with some bitch who's doing God knows what to him. And I can't do anything except follow a trail of credit card purchases and hope to find something useful."

"And your yelling is going to help him?" Mary asked. "We all know what's at stake here, and how little success we've been having, but we have to keeps our heads on straight."

"You don't get it, Mom," Dean said. "Sam doesn't do well on his own, and he's out there thinking he has nothing worth fighting for anymore. He thinks he's alone in the world, so there's nothing to stop him from being a complete moron!"

Mary slapped his arm—surprisingly hard—and waved her finger in his face (which made for some very difficult driving). "Dean Winchester, you do _not_ call your brother a moron!" she said. "Maybe I _don't_ get what you two have been through or completely understand the men you've grown into, but you are not about to put yourself in danger for information that you may or may not get that may or may not be correct."

Dean took a minute to think over her words. Had he been alone, he would have no second thoughts about throwing himself into danger if it meant saving Sam. Hell, he'd done it before.

The problem was that he wasn't alone, not anymore. Putting himself in danger meant putting his mom in danger, too.

_I've got an angel who's lying to me, a mother who believes him and is missing over thirty years of time, and a brother who got himself kidnapped and thinks I'm dead. This is great._

_Just freakin' great._

* * *

Toni's heels clicked as she circled the chair to which Sam was chained. Sometimes that was all he heard. Usually about halfway through her interrogations—now that she gave up on using truth serum—the pain started to make the world fade away. Her questions weren't being answered, and she wasn't happy about it.

He thought Dean would be proud of how little he gave, and how much of what he did give was lies.

_Dean._

He experienced it too many times to count, the way that emotion altered his perception of the world. How during his last year with his family before he went to Stanford, it was reds that stuck out. Every shade of red looked oversaturated compared to other colors. A beast lived inside of him, and it fed off of anger. And everything made him angry.

"How did you remove a soul from Hell?" Toni asked.

"I didn't."

_Bobby._

He suppressed it well enough and it didn't fade until he died at Cold Oak and found out Dean sold his soul to bring him back. Colors became normal, but edges turned hard in his determination. In his hunt for a way to save his brother, every shape became more defined. More important.

"You're lying," she said.

"I'm not."

Then Dean died—was ripped apart by hellhounds before his very eyes—and everything blurred (though that might have been the alcohol's fault). The hard-edged world gave way to one without much sense or definition.

"Do it."

One of her lackeys lumbered behind his chair and wrapped his hand around Sam's index finger.

"One chance to change your answer, Sam," Toni said.

Sam spat, "Go to Hell."

She nodded, and the hand on his finger tightened and bent his finger. At first it was just an uncomfortable pressure, but it increased until the bones in his index finger gave way with a painful snap.

"Ah, fu—Cas!" Sam groaned. "If you can hear me, now would be a great time for a miracle!"

"Angels can't hear your prayers here, Sam," Toni said. "Next one."

And then there was the Hell-vision perception of the world, seeing the world through fire and smoke. It was held at bay for awhile by Death's wall, and later taken away by Cas in the psych ward, but it was back now. He was alone with only Lucifer for company in his dreams, and he saw the world in shades of chains and meat hooks.

Her lackey repeated the process with Sam's middle finger, bending it until it snapped.

"Forget the miracle, Cas. Just smite me," Sam said. "No hard feelings, promise."

"We just want your knowledge, Sam," Toni said. "Work with us."

"You'll kill me at the end anyway, or keep me imprisoned."

"What makes you think that?"

He tried to take a deep breath, but suspected his ribs were at the very least bruised. He didn't remember injuring them and the increasing number of gaps in his memory worried him. "I become a liability if you let me go." A few more shallow breaths, the pain still pulsing through his hand in waves originating from his busted fingers. "What if I decide to go after HQ back in London? What if I start another apocalypse? There are too many chances that you can't take. Too…" _Suck it up and breathe, Winchester._ "Too many variables."

He found the strength to lift his head and look her in the eyes. "There are a lot of different paths we could take here, but they all share an ending: me dead and you without answers."

He wasn't sure at which point he fell into unconsciousness or whether or not it was drug induced, but he found himself at another nondescript motel room, sitting on the bed with Lucifer on the other bed.

"Have you thought about it?" Lucifer asked. "It can end right now. The pain. The loneliness." He enunciated each word slow and careful, like a parent trying to soothe an upset child.

"No. I'm not letting you back in. I won't."

"Be reasonable, Sam. What's so bad about saying one little word?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously?"

"What do you have to lose?"

"You can't be here."

"I am."

"They put wards up."

Lucifer shrugged. "I'm not an average angel, and you're avoiding the subject."

"Leave me alone," Sam said. He ground his knuckles into his temples. "Get out of my head."

"You're alone, but you don't have to be." Lucifer gave Sam his pitying smile. "You don't _have_ to be alone. I'll always be in your head."

"Leave."

"I'll be back," Lucifer said. He stood up. "Think about my words."

Sam sat on the bed in silence, waiting to wake up. Waiting for an end. Waiting for an angel with whom he didn't have a profound bond like his brother. Waiting for a brother who would never show up.

Always waiting.

* * *

Dean shucked off his outer shirt, glad he wasn't outside long enough for the rain to dampen the shirt beneath it too much. His mom followed his lead with her jacket. He gave her his leather jacket back at the bunker to cover up the top of her nightgown (it hung on her and did its job well). It wasn't like he wore it much these days.

"Any luck with the manager?" she asked.

"Not much," Dean said. "Showed her Antonia's picture. Guess she came by a couple days ago and paid for two rooms for one night. So, our theory about her not working alone might be right. The manager never saw anyone with Antonia—especially not a six-foot-four wounded guy—and never saw Antonia after she paid."

They both hoped that they could find a new lead if they stayed at the same motel Antonia's most recent purchases put her at.

"Of course, we're too late," Dean said.

He flopped onto the bed closest to the door and stared at the ceiling. His eyes burned after driving for hours straight and not getting proper sleep lately (and those were the _only_ reasons). Every time he did manage to sleep, it only brought new guilt with it. Why did he get to relive happy memories with Sam in dreams while Sam lived a nightmare?

Mary sported dark circles under her eyes to match his. They were both held together by caffeine and fleeting hope at this point. The duct tape and paper clips of emotional bandaging.

"So we ask around town. Try to find anything we can," Mary said. She made it sound so simple, but Dean guessed that came with being a mother. The ability to find the right words to keep their children sane. "She spent the night here, and even if the manager didn't see anything, someone else might have."

"I'm sorry," he said.

She stood leaning over him and looked at him with sad eyes (guess he knew where Sam got the kicked puppy expression from now). "You need to stop apologizing, Dean. None of this is your fault."

_We sewed Abaddon back together. I willing took the Mark of Cain to kill Abaddon, and I didn't care about what it would do to me. We should've left Abaddon alone after Henry helped us incapacitate her. I should have been at the bunker with Sam. You shouldn't be here, and you especially shouldn't be forced to deal with my problems as well as your own._

"You're wrong."

"What?"

"You're wrong," she repeated. "Whatever you're blaming yourself for in your head isn't your fault."

"I wasn't—"

"Dean," she said, cutting him off, "I know guilt when I see it."

"You just ever get the feeling like someone dropped you in the middle of the ocean with weights on your ankles, and you do everything to keep your head above the surface, but it's never enough?" Dean asked.

Mary sat on the bed next to him and said, "Yeah, I think I might know the feeling."

She put her hand on his shoulder, and he shook his head with a small smile. "You got this way of always makin' me feel like I'm four again," he said.

"I wish you could be four again, Dean," she said. "I wish I could go back and give both you and Sam a do-over, but I gotta work with what I have now. We both do."

He felt the guilt radiating from those words and wondered if she might feel worse about all that's happened than even he did. While he didn't know Sam's feelings on the subject exactly (but the kid was too softhearted to hold grudges for too long anyway), he never blamed his mom for making a deal with Yellow Eyes on November 2, 1973. She had just lost everyone she loved and the deal was for permission to visit in ten years. How was she supposed to know what it would set in motion?

Foresight really wasn't a Winchester specialty.

"We'll fill in the blanks for you, Mom. Just as soon as we get Sam back," Dean said.

"About that," Cas said. He appeared about two feet away from where they sat. "I may have a lead."

Dean was on his feet and ready to throttle the information out of Cas if need be. "Start talking."

"It's raining," Cas said.

Dean looked at the damp outer shirt he shed earlier and the leather jacket with which Mary did the same. "Yeah, I might've noticed that."

"No, Dean, it's _raining_ ," Cas repeated, stressing the words and trying to get Dean to see their importance.

"Okay. Yes, it's raining. So?"

"A little after the rain started, I heard some prayers from near here. In Searsboro, to be specific," Cas said.

"Sam?" Dean asked.

At the same time, Mary asked, "What's in Searsboro?"

"The prayers seem to come from the location of an old school. I will take us there," Cas said. He moved to touch two fingers to the foreheads of both Dean and Mary, but Dean ducked out of the way.

"Woah. Woah," he said. "You said it's near here, so can't I drive us there? No need for zapping."

Cas joined them and answered their questions in the car. The drive on a normal day would have taken fifteen minutes at the most, but rain and careless drivers were one hell of a combination.

"The prayers are from Sam," Cas said, "but I don't believe Sam is still in this area."

"How can you hear prayers from Sam in an area where he isn't?" Dean asked. "It's not like he's some prayer ventriloquist making them sound like they're coming from somewhere else."

Dean looked over his shoulder at Cas. ("Dean, eyes on the road!" Mary yelled.) "Sam's not a prayer ventriloquist, is he?" Dean asked.

Cas gave him the I'm-not-entirely-sure-what-you-mean look. "No, Sam is not."

"Do you have any idea of where he is now if it's not at the school?" Mary asked.

Dean noticed the glimmer of hope in her eyes that this hunt might come to an end soon, but he learned over the years that nothing was ever that easy. Every break they got came with two set-backs. That was how their luck worked.

"No. I was hoping to find clues when we arrived."

"Well, you heard his prayers," Dean said. "What did he pray for?"

Cas shook his head. "It's not clear, not yet. The Men of Letters must have a way to cut off the connection of prayer. Whatever they did is fading, but not enough for me to make out the entirety of his prayers."

Dean's first instinct when he walked into the abandoned school was to take Mary back to the Impala and have her wait it out there while he searched with Cas for Sam clues. However, Dean learned a lot about his mother in the short span of time they've been hunting for Sam, and he knew that she refused to be put on the sidelines when her family was involved (probably where he got that part of his personality from).

So she trudged into the building alongside Dean and Cas, a handgun held by hands with years of practice using firearms. Cas took point and used the remnants of Sam's prayers to guide him. They checked the upper floors first—not betting that the Men of Letters would want high ground, but not ruling out all possibilities either.

The floor was already littered by debris, which was merely added to when a chunk from the ceiling fell. A thick layer of dust became unsettled from it and clouded the air. "What the hell?" Dean asked between coughs. "Are they trying to kill him with asbestos inhalation? Going for the long con of cancer in thirty years?"

"I doubt it," Cas said. "If the Men of Letters want something from Sam, that would be a very ineffective way of getting it from him."

Mary stifled a laugh. She found Cas' lack of human understanding funny, but Dean suspected part of it came from her not being the only clueless one around when Cas was present. "I don't think Dean was being serious," she said.

"Oh. I understand."

Dean doubted that, but it was just another lie added to the pile Cas was slowly building.

They looped around the upper floors and made their way to the basements stairs before anyone spoke again.

"Down here," Cas said. "The prayers are louder."

Dean pulled a flashlight from his pocket and followed after Cas, keeping Mary close and cursing himself for not grabbing her a flashlight as well. "Watch your step," he said.

"You too," Mary said. "A fall here probably means tetanus with everything that'll cut you up on the way down. When was the last time you had a tetanus shot, Dean?"

"Uh." _A normal question? I'm not good at those._ "I don't know. Maybe when I lived with Lisa and Ben. I'm pretty sure she was into that whole 'visit the doctor when it's not an emergency' thing."

Mary gave him a look filled with disapproval. She wanted the kind of life where they all went to the doctor regularly without emergencies. The kind of life where they didn't disappear without warning because some psychos had a vendetta against them. A safe life.

"That was like six years ago, should still be good," Dean said, trying to appease her. "They last ten years or something, right?"

"Who are Lisa and Ben?" she asked.

A stab of sadness and guilt shot through him at that question. After enough years, he thought it would be easier. But he could never thank Lisa for taking him in for that year when the apocalypse didn't go off as planned, and now she would never remember she'd done anything for him at all.

_Whoever said ignorance is bliss might've known what they were talking about._

"A subject for another time."

Cas walked through the basements hallways, occasionally sticking his head into rooms off to the side, until they came to an open room cleared of dust and debris. He pointed out the symbols drawn on the walls. "Sigils to trap prayers from reaching angels," he explained. "They haven't been used in a very long time, but if anyone would have knowledge of them, it would be the Men of Letters. The rain managed to drip through the rotted floors and smudge the sigils, which lessened their hold on the trapped prayers."

"So can you hear what Sam prayed for now?"

"Yes."

"Well, are you gonna tell us?"

Cas looked over both of them for a long moment. "I don't think either of you want to hear it."

"I don't know how to kill an angel," Mary said, "but I'm willing to learn if you don't tell me what my baby prayed for."

Dean remembered commenting to Sam that he was more like John than Dean was, no matter how hard Dean tried to emulate him. He didn't really understand why, but he did now. He wasn't like John, and would never be like John.

He was too much like Mary.

"He prayed for a miracle."

Dean glanced at Mary and saw she had the same thoughts running through her head. "Well, that's not a bad thing."

"No, but then he asks me to smite him," Cas said. "He said he would have 'no hard feelings' for it."

Dean fisted his hands in his hair, grabbing the short strands to the best of his ability and using all of his might to avoid tearing them out. He walked in a small circle, wanting to hit something, but the Men of Letters did too good of a job in cleaning out the room. The only thing they left behind were sigils scrawled on the walls, and he hated that they knew what they were doing to some extent. It made his job that much harder. "That's it? He's just giving up?"

_He thinks he's alone. He's giving up because there's nothing to fight for._

"It could have just been a moment of pain," Mary reasoned, rushing her words. "Maybe they did something and it was just a heat of the moment type of prayer."

He could almost see Sam in the room, broken in more than the physical sense with pain becoming his religion. Sam wouldn't cave, Dean knew that. The Men of Letters couldn't do anything worse to him than what he's been through over the years.

"I don't think it's that simple, Mom. I think we need to hurry up and find him because he's on track to do stupid things. You know they say there's nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose, and right now Sam thinks he fits that description."

Any words or gestures of attempted comfort from Mary and Cas were lost on him. The uncertain promises to find Sam fell flat because he knew as well as they did that nothing was certain. He looked at Mary, feeling like the four-year-old that she left behind. She stared back with the same heartbreak he saw in 1973, when she cradled John and made a demon deal in desperation. They both knew what true loss felt like, and he would bet that neither of them wanted to experience it again anytime soon.

"Let's get moving, then," Dean said, backtracking through the building to the entrance. "I can't wait to tear Antonia—and whoever is helping her—apart with my bare hands!"

" _Dean's my superhero everyday."_


	4. I Won't Lose Hope

_Present time (the month after the world didn't end):_

"Don't these hunts all seem a little too easy to you?" Sam asked.

Dean was driving them back to the bunker after their third salt-n-burn in as many weeks. He shrugged. "Haven't given it much thought," he said. "How's your arm?" His voice rang with all the proper notes of concern, but the melody still fell flat.

Sam pulled the drenched bandana from the cut on his arm (of course the spirit's body had to be in the basement filled with the sharp tools of a psycho killer). It needed stitches, that wasn't a secret. "That's the weird thing," Sam said. "It doesn't hurt. I don't feel a thing right now."

Dean didn't even spare a glance at him. He simply said, "We'll get you fixed up back at the motel."

_This isn't Dean._

Lucifer promised that Sam would forget that none of this was real one day, but it was the little things that reminded him he was living in a dream. Everything was superficial, created in Lucifer's image of truth.

The hunts were too easy, all of the information they needed too convenient to find. Eyewitnesses who saw just the right things to figure out what creature they were hunting that time around. Sam rarely consulted the books back at the bunker anymore. When he was given all of the pieces of a puzzle, he just had to put them together.

He would, however, prefer that they weren't the oversized pieces of a toddler's jigsaw puzzle.

"You aren't Dean," Sam said to the pretender seated behind the wheel. He kept applying pressure to a bleeding wound that he would never bleed out from. A quart. A gallon. Ten gallons. He could lose more blood than his body contained and still function at one hundred percent.

None of it was real, after all. Dying in a dream is simply a reset button and nothing permanent. He'd just wake up in his bed back at the bunker and start over with a new hunt.

He knew from experience.

"You take a knock to the head, too? 'Course I'm Dean."

He usually enjoyed just speeding down the roads in the Impala with Dean. Conversation or music didn't matter—were optional, really—but it was the companionship. The feeling of knowing he could trust the person beside him with his life and never be let down.

He didn't feel that now. The man beside him was a cheap carbon copy of the real deal. It went through all of the same actions Dean would, but there was no feeling behind them. No drive.

There was nothing. He lacked everything that made Dean, well, Dean.

He wasn't sure how time moved here relative to the real world, but in the weeks he'd been trapped in his own mind, he only ever felt empty. Lucifer said he didn't have to be alone, but he felt more alone than ever with these puppets acting like the people he cared about and waltzing around under the pull of an invisible puppeteer.

Was this peace?

"Don't worry about it, Dean," Sam said at last. "It's nothing. My head's fine. I'm fine. Everyone's… fine."

_Nothing is fine._

"Good. Good," Dean said.

The rest of the drive was devoid of conversation. Somewhere along the way to the bunker, Sam stopped bothering with holding the bandana to his cut. The real Dean would've had a tantrum over him bleeding all over the inside of the Impala for no good reason (good reasons being that the wounds are unable to be controlled with a simple scrap of cloth).

This Dean kept quiet, seemingly not even noticing what Sam did.

At the bunker, Dean stitched him up with half-assed jokes that didn't quite make sense. They weren't the kind of jokes Dean would normally make, which started another chorus of 'Not the real Dean' in Sam's head. With all these constant reminders, how could he possibly forget this was all an illusion? Was he just supposed to go through the motions until he could convince himself that it was maybe real and just ignore the little details that made him doubt?

If this was peace, Sam preferred chaos.

* * *

_The third week after the world didn't end:_

_It was a rare occasion when Dean Winchester fell prey to illness. With his luck, he almost never got sick when they were near Bobby or Pastor Jim and that meant no soft, real bed that didn't smell like must and cheap perfume that refused to wash out._

_Sixteen-year-old Dean normally loved any excuse he could use to get out of going to class, but not when it meant laying around all day with his body unable to decide if it was hot, cold, or wanted to throw up his intestines. Also, day time television was shit, but it inspired him to sleep in hopes that something decent and mind-numbing would be on when he woke._

_The last thing he expected when he woke up was twelve-year-old Sam in the crappy motel kitchenette hovering at the stove that could set the entire building on fire at a moment's notice. His blurred vision cleared after a minute, the lure of sleep still tempting, but resistible. He glanced at the clock._

" _Sam?" he asked. "What the hell are you doing here in the middle of the afternoon? You should be at school."_

" _Dad won't care if I miss a day. Well, half of a day."_

_Dean got out of bed and made it to the tiny table in the kitchenette before he sat to sit. "I'll care," he said. "Get back to class, Sam. You'll still make it for most of the afternoon if you walk fast enough. What is that smell?"_

" _It's called tomato and rice soup, Dean, and I'm not going back to school today," he said._

" _Where did you get stuff for tomato and rice soup?"_

_Sam's face matched that of a deer caught in headlights and he looked away from Dean. "I grabbed some of the food money Dad left from your duffel bag."_

" _And you wasted it on this?"_

" _Will it make you feel better?"_

" _I don't know. I guess," Dean said. "I didn't think about it before, but I am kind of hungry."_

" _Then I'm not wasting anything. It's worth it." Sam flashed him a quick grin. "Besides, tomato sauce and rice isn't expensive. It might not have the same homemade quality as Mom's, but…"_

" _I'm sure it'll taste great, Sammy. It's the thought that counts or something, right?"_

_Dean made a pillow out of his arms on the table and rested his head on them. "You goin' back to school tomorrow, then?"_

_Sam shrugged. "Dunno. Depends."_

" _On what?"_

_Sam set a paper plate of steaming soup in front of him. "On whether or not_ I _have to watch out for_ you _this time."_

_With all the times he was told 'watch out for Sammy', Dean never expected there to be a day where Sammy would watch out for him. He'd never say it out loud, but some things made being a big brother worthwhile._

Dean pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, driving away the memories he lost himself in, before he returned his attention to the laptop.

"Hey, Mom, I think I got something," Dean said. A week after their exploration of the abandoned school, he finally found something useful other than a string of rented motel rooms dragging them around the Midwest.

Mary hovered over his shoulder to see the laptop screen. "What is it?"

"Airplane tickets to London purchased by one Antonia Bevell," Dean announced.

"How many? Where do they depart from? When is the departure?"

"Slow down there, Mom," Dean said. "She bought four tickets—which I guess proves our theory that she's not working alone once and for all. They look like they depart from O'Hare International Airport in Chicago two days from now."

Mary was already working on packing their measly belongings. "Chicago. That's, what, half a day's drive from here?"

Dean thought over it. Antonia's trail of motel room purchases led them up into Wisconsin, so Mary's estimate should be correct. "Yeah. Around that."

"Then chop-chop, Dean," Mary said. "If you don't get moving, I'm leaving without you."

Dean shook his head with a smile—which still looked like a ghost of his former smiles. "You wouldn't leave me."

"You're right," she said, tossing his half-filled duffel bag to him. "If I leave you behind, there's no one to keep you from doing something reckless to find Sam."

Dean helped finish packing their bags. "You don't know that I'd do something reckless," he said.

She shot him a you-really-think-I'll-believe-that glare. "A week ago, you were willing to throw yourself into the radar of supernatural creatures just for the chance to get a little bit of information."

"But I didn't," he protested, leaving the 'only because it would throw you into the supernatural radar, too' unspoken.

"You wanted to." Her voice was a lot softer now, anger washed away by understanding.

She would have done any number of reckless things if left alone to find her sons. Dean knew her well enough by then to know that, like him, there weren't limits to what she would do for her family.

And that terrified him.

"I did." He carried everything out to the Impala and took his spot behind the wheel. "But you guys were right. As much as I want to throw myself into danger if it means finding Sam, I'll be smart about it. None of us are any use to him dead."

Mary slid into the passenger seat and the familiar roar of the Impala's engine filled the air.

* * *

Conversation was absent for all of ten minutes of their several hour drive.

"Why plane tickets now?" Mary asked. "It's been, what, three weeks? Why wait this long to go back to London?"

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "There's a lot of questions about Antonia and her Men of Letters posse that I would love answers to. Maybe they just had to figure out how they were going to get Sam on a plane. It would look pretty bad trying to drag a six-foot-four beast of a human onto a plane with him fighting them the entire way, and it would look even worse if he was bound or drugged."

"Do you think they found a way to subdue him enough to get him to cooperate?" Mary asked.

"I wouldn't think so. They can't threaten a man who thinks he has nothing left to lose. You heard Cas, Sam's at a point where he's praying for death via angelic smiting. What kind of leverage could they possibly use on him when he's like that?"

Mary twisted her wedding rings around on her finger, something Dean noted to be a nervous habit of hers over the past three weeks. "How sure are we that one of those tickets is for Sam?" Mary asked at last.

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Of course, one's for Sam," he said.

Grief Stage One: Denial.

"I don't want to think about it either, Dean, but we have to consider all of the possibilities."

"I find it unlikely that they would just let Sam go after the trouble they went through to get him in the first place."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"I don't want to talk about Sam dying, Mom," Dean said. "He ain't gonna die because we're going to show up and save his ass."

"I hope you're right, Dean. I really do."

"'Course I'm right," Dean said, flashing her a quick grin. "Watchin' out for Sam's my job."

_I've let him down before, and I'm not about to do it again._

"Hello, Dean." Cas appeared in the backseat.

Mary, to her credit, managed her surprise much better this time around.

Dean glanced at Cas in the rear view mirror. "How the hell do you keep finding us, Cas? I thought you carved up my ribs like an art project to hide me from angels."

"Your ribs are still branded, yes. However, your mother's ribs are not. That's how I found you."

"Now isn't a great time to fix that, so we'll deal with it later. Did you come with any actual news?" Dean asked.

"What are you planning to do to my ribs?" Mary asked, her question ignored.

"The returning presence of the Men of Letters after so many years—even if it is the London Chapter—has stirred up talk amongst the supernatural world. Although that's to be expected—any activity from a group that normally keeps to themselves and their library would be strange—I thought you would still like to know."

"Who in the supernatural world?" Dean asked. "Should I be concerned? Are we not the only ones going after Sam?"

When Cas didn't answer in the first minute, Dean looked at him over his shoulder. ("Dean, seriously? Eyes on the road!") "Cas?" Dean prompted.

Cas cleared his throat. "I don't know, but the Men of Letters have information about supernatural creatures that hasn't been known outside of their organization in decades. That could interest any number of creatures into tracking them."

Dean stared directly at the road (he wouldn't admit that it was partially to avoid another lecture from Mary). "I thought we were friends, Cas," he said.

"We are friends," Cas said, sounding genuinely confused.

"Then why do you keep lying to me?"

"Dean, I—"

"Unless you're about to tell me what you're trying so hard to hide," Dean interrupted, "I don't wanna hear anything."

Cas fell silent.

"Cas, man, you can't do this to me. Not now. If you know something that'll help us help Sam, you gotta tell me," Dean said. He wasn't above pleading for his family.

"I believe that the Men of Letters are the only ones who mean to harm your brother at this time," Cas said.

"Do you know why they took him in the first place?" Mary asked. She patted Dean's arm a couple of times, but he drew no comfort from the gesture. Not this time.

Cas shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I was unable to find why they took Sam."

"That I believe," Dean mumbled.

"Dean, I don't think now is the time to pick fights," Mary said with the motherly warning tone she somehow perfected in her four years of mothering. (He wondered if he was a terrible child and she had to use it often in the short span.)

"I don't think now is the time to keep secrets from each other, but that's not stopping him!" Dean yelled.

"I'm doing what I believe is the best, Dean," Cas said. "Please try to understand that."

"What kind of secrets do you feel are kept for the best?" Dean demanded. "Do you remember how many times keeping secrets has royally screwed us?"

"Of course, I haven't forgotten," Cas said. "Angels have excellent memories. Eidetic, almost."

"I'm not in the mood for your angelic human misunderstandings."

"Enough, both of you," Mary said. She turned to face Cas in the backseat. "Is whatever you're hiding helpful for finding Sam?"

"Doubtful."

Mary turned to Dean. "Well?"

He glanced at both of them, one after the other. "Doesn't sound like he's lying about that."

"Good. Now just keep driving," Mary said. "If they're planning to put Sam on a plane, then we'll be there to intercept them. Are you riding the rest of the way with us, Cas?"

"Yes, I suppose I am," he said.

_Let's hope this is as easy as they make it sound._

* * *

Mary handed Dean a bag of fast food and took a seat next to him. "You're sure they'll pass by here?" she asked.

Dean nodded his thanks and sorted through the food and decided on eating a burger first. "I'm pretty sure."

"Pretty sure?"

"Well, they're a bunch of sneaky bastards so I wouldn't be surprised if they found some backwoods way through the airport."

They both watched the passers-by with the trained eyes of hunters while they ate. The problem was that they were used to looking for monsters who had general patterns. Hunting humans was exactly what John raised him to not do. Don't kill humans was one of the top rules, and how many times had Dean broken it over the years?

"I'm almost excited," Mary said. "Three weeks, and we might finally get to see Sammy this time. Bring him home."

Dean didn't share that excitement, couldn't allow himself to, but he wouldn't ruin it for his mom. "Yeah, maybe. We still gotta be careful. Keep our heads on straight."

"I know that, Dean. I just… This is tearing you apart. This is tearing _me_ apart. I have all of these questions, and it'd just be nice to have a couple of answers for once."

"I know this has to be hard on you, Mom. I'm so sorry—"

Mary cut him off. "None of that, Dean. You have nothing to apologize for."

"I have plenty to apologize for."

"Not to me," Mary said.

After a bout of silence, Cas joined them at their section of chairs. "Searching an area is much more time consuming without using my wings," he said. "I tend to forget that."

"So much for that angelic eidetic memory, huh?"

"I said 'almost eidetic'."

Dean sighed. "Was just a joke, Cas."

Dean checked the time. "Their departure isn't for a couple hours yet. Guess we just watch and wait now."

* * *

_Present time (the month after the world didn't end):_

Too many fallen angels knew of his presence and his mission by now. They hid themselves and made tracking them as difficult as possible.

Few things were more infuriating.

Lucifer trailed the white car for hours. Using a car was impractical for an angel, but not using their wings made an angel harder to track. Good thing Sam knew how to drive and Lucifer could learn enough through his memories to follow his little suspect.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," he sang to an absent audience.

The car pulled over and the driver stepped out. Lucifer copied him.

"You've been following me for awhile, Lucifer," he greeted. "Did you want to talk somewhere more private?"

"Bathin, if you're cooperative, there will be no need for us to talk in privacy," Lucifer said. "I imagine you've heard why I was looking for you."

Bathin wore a vessel with shaggy hair and reeked of incense. His clothes were well-worn compared to the crisp suits of the fallen angels he encountered so far. Clean, but disheveled.

"I doubt many of us are out there who haven't heard about your quest to absolve yourself of your past mistakes. They call you a traitor."

"Do you consider me to be a traitor as well?"

Bathin shrugged. "Be whatever you want, Lucifer. I've made a place for myself on Earth. Whatever angelic warfare is going on now, I don't want to be part of it."

"You're happy here?" Lucifer asked. He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the world as a whole. "This is the paradise you've found for yourself?"

"It's not bad. Pretending to be human is the most difficult when eating, so I simply avoid going to social gatherings that involve meals when I can. Although choking down what humans consider to be sustenance grows easier over the centuries."

"There's no need for you to stay fallen," Lucifer said.

"Yes, I know," Bathin said, holding up a hand to ask for silence from Lucifer. "You want me to reconcile with our Father, or you'll kill me. I've heard the story."

"So you have an answer for me?" Lucifer asked. He never knew Bathin well, but he was a refreshing change of pace. He wasn't doing what he thought would please Lucifer, he was doing what made _him_ happy.

"If Dad and I cross paths, I'll reconcile with Him. But I won't seek Him out, and I'll be happily living my little life here until that day comes."

"That was unusually easy," Lucifer said. "If you aren't careful, I might suspect you have some hidden agenda."

"I learned my lesson, Lucifer, that's all. I won't let pride get me killed."

Lucifer looked around, nodding a few times. "Good. Good. So, uh, what have you found here that pleases you so much?"

"There's a metaphysical shop in town," Bathin started. "It sells all sorts of crystals and things to burn. Books of false spells and spiritual guidance. It makes people feel better, I guess. But they also do special services like psychic readings or lessons about chakra and energy flows." Bathin shrugged with half of a smile. "Humans are so willing to believe in anything. They crave it."

"And what makes this shop so important to you?" Lucifer asked.

"I teach astral projection there. One of the few true services they offer. Some humans have a knack for it, and the ability for the consciousness to leave its body is beautiful."

Lucifer looked confused, but Bathin wasn't a riddle worth the time to solve.

"So you see I'm doing nothing wrong here, Lucifer?" Bathin asked. "I'm just trying to bask in my own peace."

"Don't worry, I'll be leaving. Just make sure you keep to your word. If you don't, you can count on my return," Lucifer said.

"Yes, Lucifer." All traces of Bathin's easy-going nature vanished. "I expected nothing less from you, but you best watch your back. You're making a lot of enemies."

Lucifer shrugged and turned away from Bathin. "I'm used to dealing with many enemies."

And he vanished with a soft flutter of wings.

* * *

_The third week after the world didn't end:_

"They should've passed by here already," Dean said. He bounced his leg on the ball of his foot and checked the time on his watch obsessively. "Where are they?"

"Was their flight delayed or anything?" Mary asked.

"No, the only delays have been in the opposite direction of where they're headed. You sure you can't track this Antonia bitch, Cas?"

"I'm sorry, Dean, but the Men of Letters are smart. They know that I work with you and your brother often, so they've hidden themselves from angels."

"Damn it." Dean stood and paced in front of them. "Their flight left over an hour ago, how could we have missed them? I burned that bitch's picture into my mind, I'm sure I'd recognize her."

"Are you sure you read the tickets right?" Mary asked. "Check her purchases again."

Dean returned to his seat and pulled out Sam's laptop, which was starting to feel more like it belonged to him with how much he used it in the past three weeks. He found Antonia's credit card purchases and had to stop himself from smashing the laptop to the ground.

"She bought more plane tickets. Always four and always to London, but for different departure times from two different airports in Chicago," Dean said.

Mary grabbed the laptop. "Let me see," she said. "Why waste all of this money? You think they know they're being tracked by humans?"

Dean tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, anything to tame his anger. "I don't know," he ground out. His words curt and near emotionless, if not for the undertone of rage.

"Well, look at this," Mary said. She shifted the screen so Dean could see it as well. "You said they all departed from Chicago airports, but there's one that leaves from Detroit."

"And that's the only one leaving from Detroit?" Dean asked.

"Why Detroit?" Cas asked.

"Just another question we don't have answers to, Cas," Dean said. He stood. "I guess that's where we head next. It has to mean something that she purchased only one set of tickets for Detroit departure."

* * *

Toni tried not to let her frustration show, but Sam saw it seep through her carefully constructed mask.

Sam tried not to let it show that his focus was not on her, but on the figure hovering behind her, just enough to the side that she didn't block Sam's view of him. Lucifer.

It wasn't just in his dreams that Lucifer visited now, and Sam felt like he did years ago after Cas broke the wall in his head and allowed the memories of Hell to flood back.

"I don't suppose you feel like answering questions today," Toni said.

" _Just give me one little 'yes', Sam."_

Sam kept silent. Toni called him a liar even if he gave her the truth, so some days it wasn't worth speaking at all. Especially not the days with the devil on his shoulder.

It must have been night, because most times Sam could clearly see the other occupants in the room. Now, however, they were hidden in shadows (with the exception of Lucifer, who Sam was mostly sure was not actually in the room). Because of this, he was oblivious to what Toni held in her hands before she turned it on.

A blowtorch.

"One chance to change your mind and be cooperative," Toni said. With the click of her heels, the flame of the blowtorch grew closer.

He felt the heat intensify before it even touched him, but the flame of a blowtorch was nothing more than a candle when compared to the flames of Hell. So he braced himself, because he wasn't about to give them anything. He wasn't about to give them a reason to believe he was worth keeping alive.

He needed them frustrated and at the end of their resources so that they would finally grant him the mercy of death.

_I know that if there's some minor chance you slipped into our shared Heaven—and if I manage to slip past Billie and make it there, too—you'll kick my ass for giving up like this, Dean. But you have to understand that's better than being stuck with them and having no reason to fight._

_Quoting your words, "I'm tired, man."_

"Go to Hell," Sam said.

"I have no plans to do such a thing," Toni said. The flames of the blowtorch cast an eerie glow across her otherwise shadowed face. "But I will simulate the experience for you."

" _Do you know why there are so many flames in Hell, Sam?" Lucifer asked._

He hovered over Sam's shoulder now.

" _It's because I burn so cold. I was just looking for a way to warm up, really."_

Odd how, after exposed for long enough, the human body can shut down and block out the pain. He knew what his skin melting under intense heat felt like, but pain to the body and pain to the soul registered very differently.

Toni had her lackeys tear away his shirt to expose his chest ("No use in starting uncontrolled fires," she said) and she scorched symbols he had never seen before on his flesh.

He read once that people can never forget the smell of burning flesh, and he knew he never would. He screamed for so long, his voice grew hoarse and he couldn't tell if it was his own or someone else's. Then, he could no longer scream. No sound would leave his mouth.

_Lucifer whispered in his ear. "'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.' Matthew."_

And wasn't that it at the end of the day? He was cursed with eternal fire. His own mother burned above his crib. His girlfriend burned above their bed. His brother saw the fires of Hell to save him. He spent years in the fires of Hell to save the world.

It all came back to fire.

He was vaguely aware of the pain stopping—he didn't know it persisted until the creation of new wounds suddenly stopped and only the throb of those already present remained. The smell of his burning flesh still filled his lungs. Unlike Hell, no sulfur accompanied the scent.

It was strange for them to stop before he passed out from the pain. The second oddity he noticed was that they talked amongst themselves, not to him.

"What is he rambling about?" A man.

"Was this a good idea? You read about his stay in the psyche ward from his records. The ones that said he claimed Lucifer wouldn't let him sleep. Maybe the fire was a bad idea." Another man. "Maybe we broke something in his mind."

Toni—the only voice he had a name for—made a 'hmph' sound. "He went through torture at the hands of Satan and came out mostly in tact. He'll be fine in the morning." Uncertainty.

It was just another long day in a series of long days. The difference was simply the increased presence of Lucifer, always tempting him with offers of peace. After a long sleep, he would be functioning. Not fine, but better than he was.

" _What's the magic word, Sam?"_

"Go to Hell," he muttered.

"See?" Toni said, relief filling her voice. "He'll be fine come morning."

* * *

They opted to stay in Chicago for another night before heading to Detroit. While Mary knew they had the time to spare, she felt like the hourglass hovering over them was almost out of sand. If the departure date on the tickets meant they had a grace period, why did she feel the need to rush?

These thoughts led to her lying awake on yet another questionable motel bed with wide open eyes that stared at the ceiling in the darkened room. Hard to believe roughly thirty-three years ago, she burned while pinned to a ceiling.

Well, that would have been hard to believe no matter the circumstance. Dean's only comment had been that she wasn't the only one it happened to, but he refused to elaborate at the time. The only thing she understood was that the topic deeply upset him.

After three weeks together, her older son was no longer a stranger, but there was still so much left to learn about him.

Sam on the other hand, she didn't know if she would get the chance to even meet him anymore. She thought of hourglasses again—always running out of sand—certain that it wasn't hers or Dean's time running out, but Sam's.

The thought that Sam's time running out would hurt Dean more than her nagged at her, but after spending so much time with him, she knew that he would be more affected than anyone if Sam died before they made it to him.

She would never hold it against Dean, but it hurt that she was robbed of the opportunity to form a bond with her own children. Sam's situation hurt her, tore apart her heart, but it killed Dean. For his sake more than her own, she prayed. She prayed that this lead taking them to Detroit in the morning would be the one they've been looking for. She prayed that Sam was alright, that he was stilling holding on.

But because she was no fool, she prayed mostly that Dean would survive no matter what outcome awaited them.

She spent a long time deep in thought.

"Dean?" she asked, keeping her voice at a whisper in case—by some miracle—Dean was sleeping.

"Yeah?" No trace of sleep lingered in his voice.

"The fact that Antonia bought so many tickets with Chicago departures and only one set departing from Detroit bothers me, and I think I figured out why."

"Lay it on me."

"From how Cas worded it, the supernatural world believes that you're dead, right?"

"Right."

She shifted to sit up, her back against the headboard. "Do you think the Men of Letters believe that as well?"

"I don't know," he said. "I'm not sure what news makes it through to the London bookworms, but they apparently researched us enough to know where Sam would be and that an angel would be with him."

"We also know that she's not working alone. Maybe they anticipated _both_ of you walking into the bunker. But only Sam and Cas did, so they took what they could."

"So you think they know I'm alive?" Dean asked.

"Honestly," Mary said, "I think they expect you to track them. I think they're leaving a trail on purpose because they want to capture you, too."

Dean turned on the light, not that she minded. Neither of them expected to get much sleep anyway. "So, they're creating a trap for me in Detroit and hoping I'll catch onto their trail."

"It would make sense."

"We should run this by Cas and get his thoughts on it," he said, "but I hope you're right. If it's a trap and they're waiting for me, they'll lead me right to Sam."

"You want to walk right into it?" Mary asked. Oddly enough, out of all the reckless things Dean suggested in the name of saving Sam, this ranked near the bottom of the list in terms of likeliness to get him killed.

Dean shrugged. "We'll plan it out on the way there, but we have the advantage of a surprise they could never anticipate, no matter how many books they've poured themselves over."

"What's that?"

Dean grinned at her. "You."


	5. Losing My Way

_The week Sam said 'yes' after the world didn't end:_

There were a lot of good reasons for Dean's heart to race. Adrenaline from a hunt. Pretty women. Waiting for the resolution of a cliffhanger on Dr. Sexy, MD.

Fear wasn't a good reason, but that didn't stop the rapid beating of his heart as he drove closer to Detroit.

Did the Men of Letters know that Detroit still made him uncomfortable? Did they place their trap there because they knew Dean tried to avoid it when he could? Why would he want to return to the place where one of his worst nightmares started and wouldn't end until a year and a half later? Call it his big brother instinct, but he knew something was wrong. He very much did not want to finish the drive to Detroit, and only would because it was Sam at stake in the end.

"What's got you so anxious, Dean?" Mary asked. "You were all set for this plan when we left Chicago."

"I'm not anxious about the plan. I've just gotta bad feeling," Dean said.

"How far out are we?"

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know. A couple hours, probably."

Mary hummed a 'hmm'. "And you just started feeling anxious?"

"Yeah, but it's probably nothing," he said. _Nothing good._ "Sam and me, we just have some history with Detroit is all. It's kind of a long story."

"How long?"

"Really, _really_ long."

"You'll tell me when this is all over?" Mary asked.

"Somehow, I don't think you're gonna give me a choice," Dean said.

Mary laughed a bit at that, and the anxiety in Dean lessened. He enjoyed Mary's presence, but when he looked at the passenger seat, he always expected to see Sam there. Every little glance only to find Sam absent hurt, and he wondered, not for the first time, if this is how his life had to be. He could only have one person he loved with him at any given time, and the rest must be dead, missing, or suffering. What sort of sick joke was that?

"I want to hear about everything I missed," Mary said. She sounded distant. Wistful. "Good or bad, I just want to know what my boys have been through."

Dean sighed. That was a conversation he wasn't ready for—and would likely never be ready for. When he thought back over the years, so much happened that he knew was going to break Mary's heart. She barely hung onto the strong shell she made herself while they trailed Sam. Besides, he hated it enough when John was disappointed in him. He didn't know how it would feel if it was Mary who was disappointed in him.

And boy, did she have a lot to be disappointed with.

The rest of the drive was only a couple of hours, but each hour felt like years.

* * *

He heard someone say once that there are moments in life that make time simply stop. This was one of those moments.

They were about an hour out of Detroit when Dean pulled the Impala over and got out. He saw a rust bucket of a truck on the side of the road, but no reason for it to be waiting there, and another truck much farther down the road behind it, flipped over in the ditch. Mary handed him the gun from the glove compartment and he approached the second truck first.

When he looked inside, he realized there _were_ passengers and these were not just a couple of abandoned vehicles, but they were suspended upside down by their seat belts and their eyes were bloodied and burnt empty sockets.

Identical to Pamela's eyes after she gazed at Cas' true form despite his warnings, but blood seemed to pour from every available orifice, given the dried trails marring their faces.

He moved on to the other truck.

"Hey!" he called out. Unlike the flipped truck, he saw the silhouette of a man behind the wheel in this one. Something big happened here, and he recognized the clues as to what exactly that something was, no matter how much he wished to be wrong for once.

It was when he stood outside the driver's side window (rolled half-way down) and stared into the vehicle that time stopped.

In the passenger seat sat a slumped Antonia with an Angel Banishing Sigil drawn on her window, the blood used still fresh enough to be bright red.

Dean trained his gun on the driver, ready to make a fatal shot. "What happened here?" he demanded. "Are you with the Men of Letters?"

The driver refused to relinquish his white knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he rocked back and forth in his seat. He didn't acknowledge the gun, and Dean wondered if he even registered his presence in his clearly scrambled mind. "He's not human," he mumbled, his accent denoting him as an Englishman. "He's a monster. A monster."

"What happened here?" Dean asked. He worked to speak in a slow and clear manner with some hope that the man in shock would be more responsive, but no amount of restraint could keep his anger from flooding his voice.

He finally found Antonia, and she was dead before he arrived.

The driver shook his head, and finally looked at Dean. "When they brought me, I swear I didn't know they had this planned."

With him being a little more cooperative, Dean lowered his gun. "Just tell me what exactly happened. I've been tracking Antonia for weeks just to find her dead!" he said, losing his temper as he talked until his words became more growled than spoken. "And I'm not seeing my brother anywhere around here! So where did he go?"

"Lady Bevell told me I'd just be helping her transport a prisoner," he stammered out. "I didn't know she would torture him. I—I never watched, I swear I just sat in the car, but I would see him afterward. He, uh, he was usually unconscious by then."

This is why he liked to stick the job of interviewing traumatized witnesses to Sam; they had to have questions spelled out to them one at a time, and that burned through a lot of patience.

"The guys in the other truck back there, they part of all this, too?"

"They're Men of Letters, but they're a higher level than I am," he said, his pace still quick, like he had to get the words out before anything crazy happened again. "They would help Lady Bevell move Sam—that's what she said his name was. They were like bodyguards."

Mary opened the door on the other side while Dean talked to the driver and inspected Antonia's body and the sigil on the window. "Her neck was snapped," she reported.

The driver nodded and looked at Mary. "Sam started saying strange things and Lady Bevell panicked. She drew that symbol and there was a blinding light from the trunk, then Sam wasn't human anymore. The men in the truck behind us drove into the ditch after the light." He looked back at Dean. "I don't know why he let me live, but please don't shoot me."

"Hey, Mom, check the trunk." Dean put the safety back on and tucked his gun into his waistband, returning his attention to the driver. "I'm not gonna shoot you," he said. As much as he wanted a blood-filled release for his anger, he believed the driver. "But I have more questions that I need answers to."

The driver nodded, much more at ease with the gun gone. "Anything. As long as I get to go home. I just want to go home."

"What kind of things did Sam say that made Antonia panic?"

"He was talking about angels because Lady Bevell said that no angels would be coming for him."

"Then there was a blinding light," Dean filled in. "And what happened after that?"

"Sam just… changed. He broke through the bindings they had him in and leaned into the front seat. I thought he was going to kill me, the way he snapped Lady Bevell's neck with a flick of his wrist. Then, he just vanished. I've never seen anything like it," he said. "I hope I never seen anything like it again."

Dean opened the door and pulled the driver out. "Why don't you start walking down the road—maybe hitchhike a ride, I don't care." He gave the man a shove to start him off, and his legs set into motion following Dean's orders. "You don't wanna drive a car with a body in it anyway, so how about we both forget it ever happened?"

The driver looked over his shoulder and gave Dean a small wave. "I can do that," he said in a small voice. He trembled as he walked, but Dean was glad he could walk at all. Giving a ride to anyone associated with what happened wasn't high on his list of things he wanted to do.

Once the driver was a decent distance away, Dean joined Mary by the truck's trunk. "Find anything?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just some ropes that look liked they've been burned off and bloodstains. What happened here, Dean?"

Dean picked up one of the rope pieces and watched as ashes fell of the scorched end of it. They were so close. After nearly a month, they were so close to getting Sam back, but they still managed to arrive just a little too late.

He didn't want to acknowledge the information that all of these little tidbits he learned added up to, so he simply said, "Nothing good."

"Dean…" Mary packed a lot into that single word with her inflection. A warning and a plea wrapped into one.

Dean took a long look at Mary and her wide, confused eyes before he said, "Angelic possession. I think Sam let an angel possess him."

"Well, that's good right?" Mary asked, desperation lacing each word. "The angels are helping him."

Dean shook his head. "Cas, get your feathery ass down here. I think we have a problem."

Cas appeared standing on the other side of Mary. "I am truly sorry, Dean," he said, each word carefully enunciated.

"Sam, he—and you _knew_?" Dean asked. He waved his hands at the trucks, the ropes, the blood, and the sigil. "You _knew_ this was going to happen?"

"I swear to you that I never expected Sam would say 'yes'. Not again," Cas said. Angels weren't great with the whole showing emotions thing, but Cas looked regretful (though maybe he just showed more emotion given all the practice he's had with being human).

"But you still knew," Dean said. "And you didn't tell me because?"

"I thought it would be better if you didn't know. Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn't have prayed to Lucifer for help if it meant saving Sam?"

"Of course, Dean wouldn't pray to _Lucifer_ for help!" Mary protested. Her unwavering belief in him was touching, however misplaced.

But Cas ignored her, and Dean stayed silent.

"That's what I thought," Cas said. "If you had called on him, what would stop him from killing you or using the threat of killing you to make Sam say 'yes'?"

"He probably used my absence to get Sam to say 'yes' anyway! I would have been used by him either way, whether it was a threat of divine liquifying organs or the reminder to Sam that he would always be alone because I was supposed to be dead," Dean yelled.

"But what would have broken Sam faster?" Cas said. "Lucifer not knowing that you are alive gave us extra time to find Sam."

Dean kicked the nearby tire of the truck, ignoring the dull throb it sent through his foot. "You don't hide something like Satan being after my brother from me, Cas," Dean said.

Dean wished he had an angel blade with him, because Cas' lack of trust in him had once again screwed all of them over. At the same time, he was a little thankful there were no angel blades nearby. He made a lot of rash decisions when fueled by anger, and adding 'killing a friend' to that wasn't something he wanted to do.

Yeah, Cas made a lot of mistakes over the years, but could any one of them say they hadn't done the same?

"I only did what I thought would be best, Dean," Cas said. "I never imagined he would get Sam to agree to being his vessel again."

"Well, what do we do now?" Dean asked.

Mary stayed silent through their conversation and her hand found its way to his shoulder, but he wasn't sure if it was meant to comfort him, or to give her some sort of stability after learning that her younger son was willingly possessed by the devil.

"All we can do is look for a way to separate Lucifer from Sam," Cas said. "Heaven is in chaos, but I will do what I can to help."

He left them, and Dean turned to Mary. "He knew Lucifer was after Sam, Mom," he said. He hated how his feeling of helplessness bled into his words. "He _knew_."

She squeezed his shoulder. "He just wanted to do what he thought was the safest for all of us," she whispered, her defense sounding weak.

In the middle of a road deserted except for him, his mother, and two corpse-filled cars, Dean found himself back on the second floor of an abandoned Detroit home with the ground littered by the bodies of men unfortunate enough to have been possessed by demons. It wasn't until after Sam left that the magnitude of that situation hit him. Sam didn't beat the devil there, no matter how much demon blood they pumped him full of, and there was nothing Dean could do about it.

Only a matter of miles away from that home, he put his hand over his mother's on his shoulder with the same pitfall stomach feeling he had back then threatening to swallow him whole. Sam was gone again (always leaving him behind), and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. He even felt the same burn of tears at the back of his eyes, but who would fault him for crying when his world was falling apart around him? When he couldn't be there for Sam when Sam needed him?

Like Lucifer said, it would always be Detroit.

* * *

Antonia and friends were salted, burned, and buried in a hole with no headstone to mark their grave or remember them by far away. Dean sat on one bed, Mary on the other. A motel room of broken souls who felt more hollow than the ghosts they hunted. Dean wanted nothing more than to go drown himself in alcohol at a local bar, but he didn't want to drag Mary to one and didn't want to leave her alone.

Mary no longer looked the part of the strong, hardened hunter on a mission that she'd played for the past weeks. Her shoulders slumped as she played away on the laptop carefully placed on her legs. The hard edges of her face were softened now, but drawn in a way that made her look as weary as she likely felt.

Dean guessed that he looked no better than her at the moment. "I'm sorry this mess of a world is what you got to come back to," he said.

"I'm sorry I couldn't keep you and Sam out of this life," she responded. "I never wanted it for either of you. I never wanted either of you to know this stuff even existed."

"I can't imagine doing anything else, Mom. We save lives, what's better than that?"

Mary didn't answer, but Dean knew she must've had a list of things she thought were better than hunting, one that could rival the list Sam would rattle off as a teen. It probably began with something along the lines of 'not risking your life against something that most people will never know exist everyday'. When he thought about it 'not constantly moving and living in a car and cheap motel rooms' was probably on the list too. The frequent moving that came with being a hunter frustrated Sam more times than Dean could count through their childhood years.

"How did this happen, Dean?" she asked, sounding so broken it physically hurt Dean to hear. "Why Lucifer of all the angels? Why Sammy?"

A sad smile spread on Dean's face and he shook his head. "You have no idea how many times I asked myself that over the years. 'Why Sammy?' you know? 'Why's it always gotta be him?' Turns out the top two archangels need true vessels—the only humans who can contain their power without bursting at the seams—and Sam just happened to be Lucifer's true vessel," Dean said. "The angels said it's a bloodline thing; you gotta be born into it."

"How do you get an angel out of their vessel?"

"Sometimes they leave on their own—but that definitely won't be happening with how long Lucifer's been trying to get Sam to let him in without the intent to wage a constant internal battle. Sometimes the vessel can eject the angel themselves, like take away permission to use their body."

"Then what are _we_ supposed to do if it's a battle between Sam and Lucifer?" Mary asked. "Dean, just tell me, how do we help Sammy?"

Dean ran his hand through his hair, then down his face. "You have no idea how much I wish I knew that answer," he said. "Sam's beat the devil before, and I want to believe he can do it again."

Mary set the laptop to the side and gave Dean her full attention. "What's stopping you from believing that?"

"Sam thinks he's got nothing left worth fighting for."

Dean watched his mom become a different person before his very eyes, fueled by the prospect of having something to fight. The idea of having a new mission. She sat up straighter, her defeat wiped away by a mask of determination. The fire that ignited in her eyes burned just to look at, but Dean felt a bit of her inner fire spread to him, too.

"Then we show him he's wrong," Mary said, as though it were the simplest thing to do. "We find a way to let him know that he has a family waiting for him to come back. And if he won't fight, then we just have to fight for him."

Dean broke into a bright grin, proud to call such a fierce woman his mother. He understood her need for fight because if they were both stuck feeling useless, it would break them beyond repair. They needed to hold on to whatever hope they found. "Guess we better get to work, then. I don't think God's sister is gonna come around this time just to forcibly expel Lucifer again. We might be on our own, but we've gone against worse odds before and came out on top."

"Start by telling me everything you know about the angels, Dean."

* * *

_Present time:_

Sam didn't really remember where he fell asleep, but he knew it sure as hell wasn't the same place where he woke up (and why did it look so familiar?).

"Sam?" asked a female voice (and he knew it, he swore he's heard it before). "Sam, you ready to go yet?"

Sam sat up in the mess of covers on a bed more comfortable (and far, far cleaner) than the many motel mattresses he graced with his presence over the years and asked, "Ready for what?"

When Jess poked her head into the room, expression a cross between anger and disbelief, Sam's heart stopped. Every brain cell he had fired into high alert because Jess shouldn't be there with her lips outlined in the shade of red he hated most for drawing too many eyes toward her.

"It's Halloween, Sam. Don't tell me you forgot about the costume party down at the bar like a block from here," she said.

"You know I hate Halloween," Sam said. The words left his mouth automatically, before he had a chance to think about them.

Jess rolled her eyes, but her smile dulled the effect. "Yeah, yeah. You say that every time I bring up the party. It'll just be a couple of hours at a bar with a bunch of people in costumes, is that really so bad?"

He knew he was being a pain in the ass, but it didn't stop him from smirking and saying, "Yeah, it is that bad. Who knows what could happen in a matter of hours among that many drinking college kids?"

"Sam." She used her I'm-going-to-get-my-way-this-time voice. "The only difference between this and every other time we've gone to any sort of party is that most people will be wearing costumes."

"But it's Halloween," he repeated, stressing the words in a way that Jess once told him made her feel like he was trying to get her to see something obvious that she missed or overlooked, but could never quite figure out what.

"Yes, we've established that part, Sam," Jess said. "It's just a couple of hours. Please?"

Dean might've thought that Sam was the one with puppy dog eyes, but his couldn't hold a candle to Jess'. So he sighed and begrudgingly agreed to go to the party with Jess, which he knew he would in the end no matter what he said (unless he came down with a sudden, horrible, unexplainable illness).

_Dean._

He hasn't spoken to his brother in years (something nagged at him that that wasn't quite right, not true). Leaving Dean behind to go to Stanford was one of the hardest decisions he ever made, but if he stayed with his father not only did he risk dying on a daily basis, he would be dead inside within a number of years regardless. Sure, he always felt the absence of his brother, but usually as an emptiness that prevented him from truly feeling at home at Stanford.

But now it morphed into a burning pain that begged him to find Dean. He _has_ to find Dean, and he has to find him soon because something's wrong. Something's really wrong.

The only problem is he can't remember what exactly is wrong.

* * *

He went to the bar with Jess, not paying much attention to his friends and much more focused on scanning the crowd for the one face he needed to find.

But he couldn't find Dean's face in the crowd ( _Dean's dead?_ ), so he joined halfheartedly in the celebration of his LSAT score (didn't he take that test _years_ ago?) and in the Halloween celebrations—which was mostly more drinking with the added bonus of Halloween themed drinks and snacks.

At the end of the night, he followed Jess home. But when she went to bed, he packed a bag and stayed up waiting (was he going somewhere?). He sat in their little living room in the dark and knew that he'd hear the door's lock being picked any minute.

When Dean slipped through the door, Sam turned the light on and felt like a parent waiting for their rebellious child to come home after missing curfew. He met Dean's eyes and remembered everything.

Yellow Eyes.

Lilith and Ruby.

Lucifer and Hell.

The Darkness.

The Men of Letters and Lucifer's offer.

Dean is dead and Sam is trapped in his own mind, but for some reason Lucifer decided to mix up the game a bit by sending him back to Stanford the night Dean came to retrieve him.

_He tried to wipe my memories, I bet he didn't anticipate I would regain them so easily. Just another game to beat._

Dean recovered from his deer-in-the-headlights look and asked, "You been waiting up for me, Sammy?"

"Yeah, guess so," Sam said. The first difference between this and the original world Lucifer locked him in that he noticed is that the people in it reacted to the changes he made. It felt much more real, and he wondered if he could use reliving his memories to his advantage. Build this trip into a better one and make the right choices this time around. Maybe that was Lucifer's plan behind this.

"So what, you're psychic or something now?" Dean asked.

Sam stood up and stretched. "Or something," he said. "You want me to go with you, right? Find Dad?"

"Uh, yeah. How'd you know that? You hear from him?"

Sam snorted a laugh. "He told me if I leave, not to go back. Haven't seen or heard from him since." _At least not yet._

"Ignoring your complete weirdness for the moment. So you know why I'm here, you gonna come with me or not?" Dean asked. This was a time when he still had hope in his eyes. He still had dozens of reasons to fight the supernatural. "Look, I know you guys didn't part on great terms, but he's still our dad and he's missing."

"I know, Dean. I never said I wasn't going. In fact, I'm ready to go and I'd really appreciate it if we could hurry it up before we wake Jess up." He turned the light off, slung his bag over his shoulder, and brushed past Dean out of the door, ignoring the surprise written all over his big brother's face.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala again felt natural, and Dean could barely contain his excitement at the fact that he managed to rope Sam into his hunt for their Dad. "So, who's Jess?" he asked.

"Girlfriend."

"You didn't want to say goodbye to her before we left?" Dean asked. "It's not too late, I can turn around and you can say what you need to."

"It's fine, Dean," Sam insisted. "I can call her in the morning and tell her everything she needs to know."

He thought about trying to find a way to save Jess this time around, and the best he could come up with was leaving and staying gone. Yellow Eyes had her killed to get him back into the hunt, but if he joined the hunt before her death, he hoped she'd be left alive. He made peace with her death years ago, and it was going to be hard in the morning when he called to break up with her, but he'd much rather be 'that jerk who broke up via phone and left forever' than the reason she burned to death on the ceiling. It was a small price to pay in the end.

She's not the real Jess and never would be, but he wanted her to live because she couldn't in the real world.

He had to figure out how to get out of his dream world, but for now, what was so bad about enjoying a little time with Dean before he lost his faith in Sam and carried the world on his shoulders?

* * *

_The week Sam said 'yes' after the world didn't end:_

_His first night at Sonny's was the hardest. He left Sam alone, without food or money, and their dad was a few days drive out. No matter how he looked at the situation, Sam would be hungry and alone for a couple of days, at least, while Dean was housed, fed, and cared for by a stranger._

He _made the mistake, but Sam was the one paying for it._ _Didn't Dad think of that when he told the police to let Dean rot in that tiny cell? To go ahead and ship him off to an ex-con's house?_

_H_ _e got out of bed and sat on Sonny's porch, trying to figure out a way back to Sam._ _Sonny thought his sulking was from feeling betrayed that his dad wouldn't bail him out, but Sonny was wrong._

_His sulking was from feeling like he betrayed the one person who meant the most to him in the world, who was probably alone and waiting for Dean to get back._

_His first night at Sonny's felt more like years than a matter of hours._

_Never having been away from Sam for more than a week before, being at Sonny's for two months left him feeling empty._ _No matter how many awards he won or friends he made, they couldn't replace the hole left by his brother's absence._

_W_ _hen he was getting ready to go to a dance and saw Sammy in the back of the Impala, Sonny offered him a choice._ _He would be sad to leave behind the small piece of normality he found, but he went back home because that's where he felt needed and that's where his job laid._

"Dean!"

He woke up to the world shaking and reached for the knife under his pillow before he realized Mary woke him and Cas stood nearby. Any remnant of sleep was wiped away by the adrenaline that still rushed through his veins.

"What's up, Cas?" Dean asked. He looked at his mom and realized Cas must've woken her as well given her slightly disheveled appearance.

"There was a disturbance at the Men of Letters' London Chapter safe house," Cas said. "All of the members were slaughtered. I thought you would want to know."

Dean nodded, glad that they were dead, but a little upset that it wasn't by his hand. "Yeah, thanks. Do we know what happened?"

"Lucifer."

Dean cursed. "I should've guessed. What's he after?"

"I don't know," Cas admitted.

"Where is he now?" Mary asked.

"I don't know that either."

"What _do_ you know, Cas?"

Cas looked at Dean for a long minute, his expression every bit as severe as when they first met. "I know that we need to find a way to separate him from Sam before he does too much damage."

"Great," Dean ground out. "Got any suggestions? 'Cause I'm all ears."

"Beyond calling Amara or God to help, I don't have any suggestions that you would like," Cas said. "Or that may even work."

"What's so bad about your suggestions that you think we wouldn't like them?" Mary asked. "If they have a chance to work, shouldn't we explore every option here? Good or bad?"

"They result in Sam most likely dying."

"Not an option," Dean said immediately. "We are not going through with any plans where there's even a possibility of him dying. We'll find a different one."

"Dean, there might not be a plan—"

Dean cut him off. "We'll find one!" he yelled. "My brother is not dying again, do you hear me? So you either find a plan to separate them where Sam stays intact, or you find a way for us to talk to Sam for at least a couple of minutes so we can tell him he's gotta fight."

Cas stood in silence for a minute that felt like the longest of Dean's life before he said, "I understand, Dean." And he left.

Dean turned to face Mary and shook his head, the reality of their situation beginning to weigh on him. "I can't lose Sam again, Mom," he said. "I just can't."

For the first time since her resurrection, Mary pulled Dean into a hug. "We won't lose him, Dean. Okay?" she said, her own voice wavering. "We're not gonna lose Sammy."

_Then why do I feel like we already have?_


	6. You Don't Have to Be Alone

Lucifer pulled a flower from the display and twirled its stem between his fingers, nails clean and neatly cut. "You know, out of everything our Father created on this Earth, I think the flowers are my favorite. So delicate and beautiful. Yet so easily destroyed." He turned his attention away from the botanical garden's display.

"Castiel," Lucifer said, finally acknowledging him directly. "How nice it is of you to join me, little brother. Though I suppose it was you who wished to meet me here. That's the benefit of a vessel whose ribs are so very decorated in Enochian; I'm hard to find."

"Lucifer," Cas said. The last time he spoke to Lucifer in Sam's body ended with him being killed by a snap of Lucifer's fingers, and brought back only through the mercy of God. Facing the devil in this form again unnerved him.

"If you were here for another bit of help in tracking Sam, well." Lucifer gestured to himself. "I'm afraid there's no longer any need. I've saved him for you."

"I asked you to tell me once you located him, Lucifer. I got you out of The Cage, so why didn't you follow through with this one favor, brother?" Cas asked. "Why did you not tell me the moment you found Sam's location?"

"I couldn't find his location until he tapped into our connection of his own accord, and by then he used it to say 'yes'," Lucifer said. His smile was a small, twisted corruption of Sam's face. "Before that, I was limited to playing the role of the devil on his shoulder. Providing him with a little company—better company than those Men of Letters."

"You have to let him go, Lucifer."

Lucifer laughed, a deep, full laugh rising up from his diaphragm. "Why would I ever do that? He agreed of his own free will, Castiel. I used no tricks, and you know I don't lie. He wanted peace, and I gave it to him." Lucifer pointed to his temple. "In here. I even gave him vengeance by taking care of those Men of Letters who wanted him punished for crimes that Heaven and Hell tricked him into committing. Crimes that he committed for _me_. Is that not a good deal?"

Cas balled his hands into tight fists, though kept his anger from showing on his face. "He would never have agreed to it had he known his brother was looking for him," he said. "That's why you need to let him go, Lucifer."

Lucifer took a few steps closer, eyebrows raised in surprise. "He lived?"

Cas relaxed a bit, filled with a small hope that he might get through to Lucifer. "Yes, that's why I'm asking you to leave Sam alone. Let him come back to the world he's meant to be in."

"I appreciate you getting me out of The Cage, Castiel. I do. And you're trying to make a compelling argument, I get it. Try tugging at my heartstrings a bit. Tell me a sob story and get me to be the hero at the end of it. But I'm sorry, brother. For Dean Winchester, this story does not have a happy ending unless he can find contentment in knowing that his brother no longer suffers and will never suffer again."

"What do you need him for?" Cas asked. "Why not leave him be and reclaim your throne in Hell?"

"Dad and I had a heart-to-heart when I was in your body, Castiel," Lucifer said. "I've been forgiven, and I'm showing my gratitude by cleaning up the mess of angels who followed me in falling."

"What do you mean by 'cleaning up'? Lucifer, what are you doing?" Cas demanded. Lucifer in his true vessel could squash Cas like a bug. Kill him with another snap of his fingers, and they both knew it. Cas just hoped that Lucifer held enough regard (or debt) for him to tolerate his angry outburst.

"I'm saving Dad the trouble of dirtying his own hands. It's very busy work, Castiel. Fallen angels can quite tricky. I'd like to get back to it, if we're done here."

"You know Dean will not rest until he expels you from his brother," Cas said.

Lucifer looked amused, but not worried in the slightest—and _that_ worried Cas. "And forcibly expelling me from Sam would leave him as a drooling mess," Lucifer said. "Unlike your vessel, his soul is still in here without an angel to minimize the damage of my exit."

"He was fine last time."

"I left once he threw himself into Hell, and his own soul left his physical body at that point, too. Didn't you ever wonder why you could only pull up the physical body, but left the soul behind? You pulled it up and healed it, but it was nothing more than a functioning shell at that point." Lucifer shrugged and stepped forward until he passed Cas. "No matter how hard you and Dean try, this will end with Sam dead or in a state where death would be a mercy. It would be far kinder to him if you both gave up now and let him keep his peace."

"Sam will find his way back," Cas said. If he learned anything over his years with the Winchesters, it was that they beat the odds, no matter how slim. "With or without help from me or Dean."

"Why would he bother to?" Lucifer asked. "He doesn't know there's anything worth coming back to."

Such a simple statement was all it took to send his confidence wavering and Cas stood alone in the garden, wondering if he should tell Dean about Lucifer's foreboding warning. When it came to Sam, Dean giving up was never an option. So regardless of what he told Dean, it wouldn't change his determination to get Sam back alive.

He wondered if Lucifer might be right and such a task was impossible at this point, or dangerous.

* * *

Mary chose one of the Men of Letters' rooms as her own, telling Dean that she was a little excited since she hadn't had her own room in years, even if she was sad that having her own room reinforced John's absence.

Every time he passed that room over the past few days, Dean stopped and listened, trying to gauge if Mary needed anything, then moved on when silence greeted him, as it always would. She shut herself off most of the time with Sam's laptop, researching alone after he told her the story of their history with Lucifer.

He meant to omit the part about demon blood, but one slip up and she demanded he tell her that story as well. Even then, he only told her the part about Yellow Eyes feeding the blood to Sam as a baby, and Sam drinking it before his face-off with Lucifer. How it was all preparation to turn him into the perfect vessel. He left out the part about Ruby starting and fueling Sam's addiction to it. He left out his memories of forcing Sam to detox from it twice, and how the process nearly killed him both times while Dean tried to drink away the sound of his screams. If Sam wanted their mom to know all the details, it would be up to him to tell her. He didn't want to be the one to make her think that her son used to be a supernatural junkie because Hell needed him to be one so he could host their angelic leader.

Dean wanted to help her. At the moment, she was really all he had and he needed to hang on before she slipped right through his fingers like Sam did so easily. But she remained adamant in dealing with the revelation of the apocalypse that almost happened (and that she died trying to save Sam from being fed demon blood) by herself, leaving her room only for necessities or to let him know if she found anything that might be useful to them, which so far amounted to not much at all.

He needed his dad. He needed Sam. But he wasn't getting either, so he needed a drink.

He padded through the halls on sock-covered feet, his mind miles away. When he turned into the library, his blood froze as he heard and awfully familiar voice say, "So you are still… _gracing_ the world with your presence, Dean."

And it was Sam's voice, but the words were far from being Sam's.

Sam stood at the top of the steps, right at the bunker's entrance, and leaned over the banister. After so long, Sam was right in front of him, but it wasn't Sam. Not really. Not yet. The only thing that mattered to Dean was that Sam's soul was still in that body, and that he could find a way to get Lucifer out.

"You know, you're kind of like a cockroach," Lucifer said. "Just so hard to kill and keep dead."

"Funny, I could say the same about you," Dean ground out between teeth clench too tight. "Come to try and give me a permanent death? Using Sam to add insult to injury, that's a low blow, even for you."

Lucifer descended to the base of the stairs, each step achingly slow. "You make a lot of assumptions, Dean," he said. "That would go against a promise I made Sammy."

"It's Sam," Dean growled, echoing the same line his brother said countless times over the years. "What could he have made you promise that included me if he thought I was dead?"

A moment of clarity dawned on Dean, and horror drew away all of the tension he felt. "He knew I was alive, didn't he? Why would he agree to let you wear him if he knew? Didn't he believe in me? Didn't he have faith that I was comin' for him? I was almost there. I was _almost there._ "

_Is this how Sam felt when I told him I couldn't trust him anymore? When I told him I didn't believe in him anymore? I thought we made up for all of that. I thought we were good again. We were_ brothers _again._

His thoughts kicked into a downward spiral at ninety miles per hour, slated for a crash with 'Personal Hell' tucked deep within the recesses of his brain. Looking back, how had his relationship with his brother gotten so messed up? How much did they have to make up for, but wouldn't get the chance to if Dean couldn't figure out how to get Lucifer out of Sam?

"Oh, no. He knew you were dead—or believed you were," Lucifer said, cutting off Dean's mental self-punishment. " _I_ believed you were dead. The supernatural world was abuzz with news that one of the Winchesters finally kicked it for good this time. Well, not that it turned out that way in the end. The promise he made me make in exchange for possessing him, it was more of a blanketing promise, and you happen to qualify. I know you don't like me, and you know that I really don't like you. But I can't kill you because of Sam, and you can't kill me because you don't have the ability to. So we can move along from the hostility."

"Then, if you aren't here to kill me, what _do_ you want?" Dean asked. "Last I heard, Satan isn't the type to make house visits."

Lucifer shrugged. "I was curious to see if it was true that you were still alive," he said. Then, he grinned. "I imagine you wanted to see your brother again, too."

"Looking like my brother does _not_ make you him." Dean kept his fists balled tight, feeling powerless when every instinct in him screamed to fight. Fight the devil. Fight for Sammy. Outmatched or not, at least it meant he tried.

But Sam and Mary needed him alive. They both relied on him to not do something stupid or rash (and trying to fight an archangel with just his fists probably fell into both of those categories).

If Dean Winchester hated one thing, it was letting down someone he loved.

"No, it doesn't. But you should rest assured that Sam is at peace right now." Lucifer tapped his own forehead. "Tucked away nice and safe in his own noggin."

Dean ignored him. "Hey, Sammy. You gotta listen to me, man. It's Dean. I'm here, and I'm alive, not in The Empty or Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory. I'm right here on Earth. I'm not gonna leave again, got it? You find your way back, and I am never leaving again."

_God. Amara. Someone. Please let Sam hear me._

Lucifer gave him a smile filled with detached pity, so out of place on Sam's face. "You won't get through to him, Dean. Soon enough he'll forget that the dream he's in isn't even real. It's over."

"It's not over and it will never be over until I have Sam back and you're gone!" Dean yelled.

"You're just a man, Dean," Lucifer said. "I'm an archangel. You've already lost."

* * *

When Dean's yells echoed through the bunker's halls, Mary slipped out of her room. She grabbed a knife—silent and efficient—hanging from one of the walls in Dean's room and stalked through the bunker until she was right outside the library door, where she heard her son and another man talking.

She flipped the knife into a grip for throwing it easier, glad that her mother had a penchant for knives and brought up Mary with the knowledge of how to use them—close and at range. The only problem was that one knife meant one shot.

She peaked around the corner. Dean's back was to her, but the other man noticed her immediately and locked eyes with her.

"Mary Winchester?" he asked.

Dean whipped around in surprise, anger still marring his face from an obviously unpleasant conversation. "Mom, what are you doing?"

She stepped into the room, no use in hiding after she's been discovered.

"Not only did you live, Dean, you came back with your mother alive as well. Tell me, how did you manage that?"

Dean glared at the man. "Guess Amara has a soft spot for me."

"So it would seem, though I never thought Auntie Amara could have soft spots. She tried killing her own brother, after all," he said. "But that's all beside the point right now since this family reunion just got a little better."

Mary raised her arm and started to throw the knife, but she froze midway through the action when the man held out his hand towards her in a 'stop' gesture. Invisible hands gripped her arm too tightly for her to budge it in the slightest, and it sent a chill of fear down her spine. Despite being born and raised a hunter, she never faced something that could do this.

"Lucifer, leave her alone," Dean said. "You want someone to toy with, toy with me. She stays out of it."

"I might have made a promise, but I'll still defend myself. She has a knife, and I'd rather not waste my energy on having to heal my vessel," Lucifer said.

"Lucifer?" Mary asked. "Then that's…"

Lucifer grinned and held his hands out to the side. "That's right. In a way, I'm your son."

"Sammy," she breathed out, more a whisper than a word.

"You're _in_ her son," Dean said. "That doesn't make you him."

"I came to find one Winchester, and I've found two," Lucifer said, ignoring Dean.

"I told you to leave her alone, Lucifer. She's not part of this. She never was."

Lucifer shook his head slowly. "I'm not going to do anything to her, Dean. I really did come here out of my own curiosity—and some hope that I could convince you to leave well enough alone so Sam could enjoy his respite, but you unsurprisingly refuse to listen to reason. And you're wrong when you say she isn't part of this. She's not just part of this, she was the start of it."

He turned his focus to Dean. "Consider this goodbye," he said. "Any plan you concoct is going to have a price that you won't like."

Then he was gone.

Mary's arm was released and she dropped it back to her side, finding Dean hovering next to her.

"You okay?" he asked.

She set the knife on a table and flexed her hand. "Yeah. It felt weird having my arm paralyzed like that, but it didn't hurt."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," she said. She felt her tears start to fall, breaking the promise she made to herself that she wouldn't cry in front of her boys. That she would be strong for them. "I couldn't recognize my own son. I tried to kill him."

"That knife wouldn't have killed him, and it wasn't Sam, Mom," he said. "Not really."

She gripped his forearms and looked up at him. "It's what I made him into, Dean," she said. The guilt that weighed on her since she woke up in the middle of nowhere had becoming crushing the more she learned about the world and the results of her death. No matter how much she wanted to try dealing with it on her own, she knew now that it would only result in her crumbling to pieces. "All of this is my fault."

Dean pulled her into a hug. She needed help, and he would give it to her. Just like he always had for the first four years of his life, when he may not have understood what was wrong. Just like he had for the past four weeks, when he was as burdened and world weary as her.

* * *

_John Winchester met a lot of hunters while learning about the supernatural from Daniel Elkins. Some were great men and horrible hunters. Some were great hunters, but horrible men. A few excelled at being both a hunter and a man._

_Bobby Singer ranked among that final category._

_Dean remembered being left with Pastor Jim when his dad had a hunt where kids were in danger. He started doing it much more often after Fort Douglas, Wisconsin._

_Then Pastor Jim went out of the country (Dean couldn't remember why anymore, was unsure he ever knew in the first place) and John was left with only a few choices of hunters he could leave his children with._

_At ages eleven and seven, they were dropped at Singer Salvage and left there with Bobby for an indeterminate amount of time for the first time._

_Dean heard the roar of the Impala's engine as John drove away and ushered Sam into the house with their bags. Bobby hovered in the archway between his kitchen and living area, not looking confident in his ability to look after two kids for more than a couple of hours._

_Bobby's lack of confidence didn't cause Dean's to waver. He helped take care of Sam since he was four, and eventually took the job over a few years later._

" _You boys, uh, want anything to eat?" he asked. "I reckon it was a long drive over."_

_Dean glanced at Sam, then back to Bobby and nodded._

" _Alright then," he said. "I'll make some sandwiches and you two can make yourselves at home. The TV reception's kinda spotty, but it'll do."_

_Dean pulled Sam to the couch, wondering how long the silence would last until Sam started asking Bobby questions in the same relentless manner he asked John and Dean. When the change of environment and company wore off into familiarity._

_Sometimes Dean wished he were a stranger to Sam, when his questions were asked in a rapid fire manner for hours on end. At least as a stranger, he'd get the shy Sammy treatment. The bowed head and non-verbal responses to questions, too afraid to speak up._

_But he remembered how Sam looked up at him like he had all of the answers simply because he was the big brother, and the questions didn't bother him as much._

_Bobby handed them each a sandwich and kept one for himself. "Never thought I'd be a babysitter," he admitted._

" _Why not?" Sam asked._

_Dean shook his head. So begun the questioning. Bobby really had no idea what he agreed to when he decided to let them stay for a bit._

" _I had a bad experience a long time ago and it shook me up real good for awhile."_

" _Does it still?"_

_Bobby took a minute to think it over and shrugged. "Now and again, but I realized something important over the years. You don't have to become your father just because you're his son."_

_Sam quieted to eat, but Dean kept on eye on Bobby to see if he'd let any annoyance slip through when Sam wasn't paying attention. Their dad hated being questioned. He would answer most of them, but became visibly annoyed after only a couple. When his answers became curt and his voice raised, Sam shut up and stayed silent for up to hours._

_Was curiosity really so bad?_

_The rest of their first night went better than expected. Bobby never showed any sign that he disliked Sam trailing him and asking about everything. Rather, he seemed to almost enjoy having a small extra shadow. Dean thought he'd have to find a way to keep Sam entertained throughout their stay, that he'd have to do most of the work in caring for him (not that he wasn't used to that being the case), but Bobby stepped up and treated both of them like they were his own (once the initial hesitance and awkwardness wore off)._

_Dean guessed that Bobby didn't know what happened in Fort Douglas, but it was refreshing to not have an adult look at him with a hint of distrust. He felt bad enough, and the way his dad looked at him always reopened the wound and brought guilt flooding back._

_Here he was just a kid, and he went to bed knowing that he was going to enjoy their stay at Bobby's, where the weight of responsibility didn't rest solely on his shoulders._

Dean woke up to complete darkness once he fell asleep in his dream of that memory. A look at the time told him he hadn't been asleep long, but it felt like that entire day passed in normal time. Once the sun came up and the hour was reasonable, he decided, he'd tell Mary about Bobby and all of the other friends they made over the years. He'd let her know that it wasn't all bad growing up as a hunter because when they created bonds, those bonds were stronger than any person in a normal life could understand.

The hunting lifestyle may spell loneliness for some, but neither Sam nor Dean were ever really alone, and Mary needed to hear that.

* * *

Avoiding being pulled to Cold Oak proved difficult. Sam still couldn't kill his dad with the Colt when he begged him to. So while he managed to avoid being hit by a demon driving a semi, the cuts inflicted on Dean still almost killed him. And Dream John Winchester found himself in Hell just like the real John.

When May came, Sam found himself transported to Cold Oak for the second time. This time he knew that it ended either with his death or with him murdering a man.

His right arm was on fire and Jake laid on the ground before him, unconscious, but not for long. Dean should be close by, but he'd arrive just a little too late.

He picked up the knife with his left hand and drove it through Jake's throat, something he couldn't bring himself to do the first time out of inexperience and naivety. His eyes flew open and blood bubbled out of his mouth, but at least it was quick. That was the only mercy Sam spared. "I'm really sorry, Jake," he said. "But you die in the end anyway. Still by my hands."

He stood, covered in mud by this point and exhausted, and walked towards the edge of the town where he remembered seeing Dean the first time around.

Where he expected Dean to be, another man stood instead. He wore clothes so faded Sam couldn't so much as guess at their original color. His hair was much too long and hadn't had a brush taken to it recently. But he didn't seem threatening.

"Took me awhile to find you, Sam," he said. "Looked everywhere, and avoiding Lucifer while doing so was a challenge, but here you are tucked so far inside your own mind that you may as well be dead."

"Who are you?" Sam asked. "You aren't supposed to be here. Dean and Bobby came for me, not you."

The man looked surprised. "You're aware this is all fake?"

"Of course."

"Interesting," he said. "Well, my name is Bathin. You may have heard it at some point, but I doubt that. I've been forgotten alongside my brothers long ago."

"What do you want?" Sam asked. "Just leave me be."

Bathin stepped a few feet closer with a slow walk, like he had all the time in the world. Given the circumstances, Sam supposed that might be true for the both of them.

"Why are you so eager to get back to this false world? You can't tell me you enjoy being here. I could feel your loneliness before I even made contact with you."

"It's better than the reality that was waiting for me," Sam said. "Reliving my memories and feeling alone is better than living and actually being alone."

"I want to help you, Sam. You aren't as alone as you think you are," Bathin said. "Do you have any idea what's going on in the real world while you sit here?"

"How would I? Lucifer is wearing me," Sam said. "I'm practically a glorified prom dress right now."

Bathin laughed. "You still have some humor. That's good," he said. "But Lucifer is making a lot of enemies while you slumber here."

It was Sam's turn to laugh. "Doesn't he always? What do you want me to do about it?"

"You've beaten him before and thrown him back into his cage," Bathin said.

"You want me to lock myself in Hell with an archangel again? You can't ask me to do that."

The memories he tried for years to forget flooded back in a rush. One hundred and eighty years in Hell, wasn't that enough? Why should he throw himself back into The Pit and return to that torment?

"I have a lot of friends," Bathin said. "We could pull you from The Cage in one piece, body and soul."

"You're an angel," Sam said. "Invading dreams. Lucifer's enemy. Being able to get to The Cage. It makes sense."

"I fell with Lucifer," he said. "It wasn't that I loved God more than humanity, but why did He give free will to them and not to us? Why were we not allowed to make our own choices? Did He not trust us? We were punished for disobeying, but humans were almost encouraged to."

"Your point being?"

"Not all fallen angels hate humans. Some of us were just sick of the rules and constraints," Bathin said. "But Lucifer, after his heart-to-heart with God, has decided that all of us need to either ask God for forgiveness, or die at his hand. He's taken up the role of judge, jury, and executioner, and I doubt it's under the orders of Dad. So I'm here to help you help me. A mutually beneficial arrangement."

"The key to The Cage is gone. Your plan won't work," Sam said. "I'm pretty sure Death's ring isn't exactly recoverable. He didn't leave it behind when he crumbled into dust."

Bathin sighed. "If anyone could find another way, it'd be Procel. Hidden and secret things are his specialty."

"Great. Go talk to him instead of the guy Satan is riding," Sam said. His peace wasn't great, but he wanted to get back to it. Was a little more time with a memory of Dean too much to ask for before he started working out a way to free himself again?

Bathin rubbed the back of his neck. "Procel and I aren't on good terms."

"Then go find someone who can actually find and talk to him."

" _You_ can," he said. "Which brings me back to why I'm here: to help you. I teach humans how to astrally project their consciousness. Most can't grasp it, but you were born a psychic. I'm sure you'll be able to with the proper guidance."

"Even if he knew another way to take care of Lucifer, I can't do anything about it without control of my physical body," Sam said. "No matter how you spin it, I'm useless to you here. Just leave. Please."

"Ask your brother to search him out. Reputation has it that he loves being involved in stupid plans." At Sam's questioning looked, he continued. "Just because we're fallen angels does not mean that we stopped paying attention to the world around us—and Heaven and Hell, of course."

"Apparently, you have. My brother is dead."

Bathin moved closer and put his hands on Sam's shoulders with a small smile. He shook his head. "Everyone thought so, then the rumor started that he was alive. And he _is_. Lucifer found out and had a chat with him. No one thought he'd survive, and the news is already spreading across the supernatural world, beginning with angels."

Sam shook his head and pushed Bathin away. "You're lying. Why should I believe you?"

"I was just in his dream, and if you trust me long enough to learn from me, you can visit his dreams and see for yourself," Bathin said.

"What's the catch?" Sam asked. If Dean was really alive, he needed to fight _now_. No more procrastinating because he was too afraid of facing a world alone and leaving the comfort of his memories.

Still, he had the suspicion that this angel knew Dean was his weakness (which wasn't a huge secret) and was giving him false hope to benefit himself. If he didn't need to trust the angel to be certain whether or not Dean lived, he would've called Lucifer in just to get Bathin out. He wasn't sure how to summon Lucifer here, but he imagined prayers worked in a dream when the dream was forced upon him by the angel he prayed to. Like if he banged on the bars of his cell, the warden would come investigate.

"The catch is that if Lucifer figures out that you learned to leave at will and communicate with others, you'll be on permanent lock down facilitated by Satan himself."

"How could he not notice if I go missing?" Sam asked. Lucifer left him alone, and he really didn't want to do something to compromise that.

"You aren't going missing, just a piece of you is temporarily leaving. He shouldn't notice at all unless he's looking for you in the first place, which I hardly imagine is the case. Just be wary about the possibility and use this gift I wish to give you wisely. Don't use it too often or for too long. Caution is the key, understand?"

"And all you want is Lucifer out of the picture?" Sam asked.

"Do you think it's right for him to create a quest of his own in God's name? A quest that involves killing His children, fallen or not? I just want to save my brothers and sisters. We've been through much together, and most of them won't be so willing to reconcile. You'll never have to see me again after this. Just please," he plead, "don't let them die."

He sounded so human, Sam remembered Gabriel, who tried to warn them not to face Lucifer with the pagan gods. But they didn't listen, and Gabriel paid for their mistake. Gabriel who understood humans in a detached way and knew how to toy with them. Until now, he was the most human-like angel Sam encountered. Even Cas had adjustment issues when he turned into a mortal, but Bathin and Gabriel learned over centuries what it meant to be human.

"Talk to Dean, tell him to find an angel named Procel and ask for a way to either kill or send Lucifer back into his hole," Sam said. "That'll go over well."

_Because Dean will really be willing to go with a plan that involves killing me to kill Lucifer, or that ends with me throwing myself into Hell. Again._

"You have a better option?"

"If I could talk with Dean, we might be able to come up with something, but right now, no," he admitted. "So, when do we start?"

Bathin smiled, his shoulders lowered as the tension left them. "Immediately."


	7. The Damned

Sam never thought it was possible to be so exhausted without even being awake, but Bathin kept to his promise and instructed him like a drill sergeant in astral projection. The only thing that prevented him from snapping at Bathin (like he used to snap at his father in his later teenage years for being a drill sergeant, or slave driver as Sam more often liked to call him) was the fact that this might be the one way that he can communicate with Dean until they figure out a plan to deal with Lucifer.

_Easier said than done._

Sam couldn't keep track of time passing while they worked (not like he could before either). Cold Oak became a little more unnerving in its time-frozen state. The attempted rescue, courtesy of Dean and Bobby, he received that should have logically been next in his memories would never come.

"I believe you're ready to seek out Dean," Bathin said. "You remember how to tell when he's sleeping?"

Sam nodded. "Don't send out my full consciousness, just reach out to him, see if his consciousness is awake or not, and go from there."

"You've been one of my best students, Sam," Bathin said with a proud smile. "Teaching you was a pleasure, but please use this gift and make haste. I still fear for the lives of my brothers."

"Get Dean to find Procel and a way to get rid of Lucifer," Sam recited. "I know the plan."

The first time he brushed against Dean's consciousness and confirmed that his brother was alive sent Sam into overdrive with practicing. He was so close to being able to enter Dean's dream and actually talk to him after this nightmare that felt like it would never end.

"Just remember that you can't leave for too long or too often. Raising Lucifer's suspicion is the last thing you want to do."

Sam smirked a bit. "Yeah, I can understand that."

Bathin smiled and gave Sam a pat on the shoulder. "Good luck, then. And thank you," he said. "Maybe I'll see you on the other side someday."

Sam returned the smile. "Yeah. Maybe."

Bathin left, and while his absence brought back the crushing loneliness of a fake world, Sam ignored it. He would miss Bathin's presence, having come to like the angel during their time preparing him to contact Dean (he was almost fatherly with his strict manner and how proud he was when Sam succeeded in their lesson), but it wasn't something he could dwell on at the moment. He concentrated and finally put his efforts towards the goal he worked so hard to accomplish.

He started searching for Dean's consciousness again, hoping his brother was sleeping for once.

* * *

"The Banishing Sigil won't work?" Mary asked.

Dean refrained from banging his head against the table filled with haphazardly scattered books. The words started to blur together hours ago, and he still didn't have new information.

Two weeks ago marked the day where Dean relived his worst nightmare, encountering Sam possessed by Lucifer. Since then, him and Mary poured over every book about angels they could find in the bunker, along with journals that Sam painstakingly added any new information to when they came across it. Sam's handwriting brought back memories of sitting at motel tables and showing Sam how to write his letters, then watching him try to copy his big brother's childish scrawls.

"It'll just ship him away, along with Sam. It doesn't banish an angel from their vessel," he explained. "God damn it, Sammy. Why you gotta make my life so difficult?"

" _That's my job, right? Take care of my pain in the ass little brother."_

Maybe God (or Chuck, did the semantics really matter?) gave up on helping humans a long time ago, but if he could just spare one more moment of divine intervention to keep this whole devil-in-my-brother problem from ending like Cold Oak or Stull, Dean would give him anything he wanted.

Mary drained every last liquor bottle she found in the bunker that morning after she decided Dean's consumption rate was a bit high for her liking. The list of things Dean would do for a drink was filled with things he should be ashamed of (and that list would never be told to Mary, ever), but that was how he learned to cope with the hunting lifestyle and the angel bullshit it brought with it.

"The only thing I can think of that _might_ work is the Angel Suppression Sigil," Dean said. "It gives the angel's vessel control of their body back for a couple of minutes."

"I'm guessing there's a 'but' coming up next," Mary said.

" _But_ with a normal angel, it only lasts a couple of minutes. I don't know how long it would work against Lucifer."

"Maybe, but it's the only plan we have that even has a possibility of working," Mary said. "Just being able to talk to Sammy might convince him to fight Lucifer from the inside. And he'll know we're fighting on the outside for him."

"There's another problem," Dean said. "How the hell are we supposed to get Lucifer here to use the sigil in the first place? Something tells me he won't be answering our prayers and the last time I tried to summon him, it was more like calling him on the phone. He didn't show up until he thought I had something of interest to him, which I definitely don't this time around."

Dean flipped his book closed with a muted thump and drove the heels of his hands into his eyes in an effort to lessen the exhaustion he felt in them. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe we're looking in the wrong books."

"What other books could we look in?"

"There's this book of spells that can do things you would never dream of being done," Dean said. "And I'm not gonna lie, it ain't right and using its spells have horrible consequences."

"So it might work, but even if it works, something terrible could happen as a result," Mary said.

"Something terrible will most likely happen," Dean clarified. "The last time it was used almost ended with God dead and all of his creations with him."

"Is there any way to know if there's anything in that book to help us?" Mary asked. "I'm not saying we have to go through with using it, but maybe we can consider it and try to find out the aftereffects of its spells."

Dean pulled out his phone and found '666' under contacts, but hesitated in hitting the call icon. The Book of the Damned was the reason they were in this situation in the first place, did he really want to use it to get them out of it? He met his mom's eyes, steady, expecting, and a little hopeful, and called.

"Hey, Crowley," he said. "How do you feel about getting that witch-catcher on Rowena again?"

* * *

After far too much time spent tracking a single fallen angel, Lucifer found himself in front of the door of a would-be abandoned cabin in the woods if not for its said angel occupant. He saw the illuminated Enochian symbols covering the outside walls, invisible to mortals and a poor attempt to keep hidden.

He pushed open the door and step through. The most angel warding an angel could do was to try and slip under the Angel Radar, but they couldn't keep angels out if they themselves wanted to be in the building. "Enepsigos," he called. "Come out, come out wherever you are."

Silence was the only response.

"I know you're here," he said. "I can feel you."

He wandered from room to room, finding only emptiness and cobwebs decorating the rundown house. If he didn't know better, he would assume this place was abandoned and had been for a long time. "You know, I've always hated your name," he said. "It's such a chore to say. Enepsigos. I pity you for having to live with it. _That_ must be Hell."

He made his way to the second floor of the cabin and found himself engulfed in a ring of holy fire. Enepsigos stood in front of it, a smug smile on her face and a silver Angel Blade in her hand.

"Hello, Lucifer," she said. "Glad you could make it."

"Did you really think that a ring of holy fire will hold me for very long?" he asked. "I'd say you have two minutes, at most."

She flipped her blade. "More than enough time to stake you with this pretty thing."

"By all means, use an Angel Blade on an archangel. It won't do much more than anger me, but we'll get to that part when it arrives."

"Don't you remember leaving Gabriel's Archangel Blade behind at a nice hotel conveniently located in the middle of nowhere after you killed him?" she asked.

She put out the fire and followed it up with driving the blade into Lucifer, the confidence of winning etched on her face as the last thing he would see as his existence was painfully torn apart.

Which faded quickly when Lucifer remained standing, looking down at her with amusement.

"How?" she growled. "How are you still alive?"

"I _did_ take Gabriel's Archangel Blade with me after I killed him. I took it and I hid it extremely well, in a place where nosy little angels like you would never find it just in case I couldn't get my own blade before my showdown with Michael—not that it panned out in the end." He pulled the blade from his stomach and tossed it to the ground. The wound left behind healed within moments. "That sticker you found yourself isn't an Angel Blade at all—archangel or not, it won't be doing damage."

"That can't be," she said. She stepped back, trembling in rage and fear that Lucifer felt roll off of her.

"Gabriel always was the trickster of the family," Lucifer said. His Archangel Blade slid into his hand from his sleeve and he held it up. "This is the real deal. That on the ground is made of some cheap metal all prettied up and make to seem as real as he could manage, but it's obvious if you know what an Archangel Blade looks like that this isn't one."

Enepsigos backed away, but there wasn't anywhere for her to go and she knew it. She could run, but Lucifer had her in his sights and would find her again and again.

He held the blade to her throat. "It was a good plan. Lure me here and pretend like you don't want to be found, then put out the holy fire and follow it up with a stab before I had time to stop you," he said. "You know what? I didn't even suspect that it was a trap. I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to try and kill me because you thought you had the upper hand, which you could have found out was not true if you put some effort into your fact checking. I really didn't want to kill you, but I can't imagine you're going to agree to play nice with Daddy either after your display here, are you?"

She spat in his face. "Go back to Hell, Lucifer. We wanted our leader to come back and guide us, not a son acting like his father's lost puppy trying to find his way back to a home that kicked him out in the first place!"

It took a single motion for the blade to slide across her throat and detach her head, and the reaction was involuntary and immediate. It was probably the only honest action Enepsigos performed in her life, something she couldn't fake.

Her mouth (her vessel's mouth) opened as the tense lines of her face relaxed in death with nothing to hold them back anymore. Lucifer couldn't count the number of lies that rolled off her tongue and how her allegiance was fickle and only given to those she thought she could manipulate. Between Lucifer and God, she picked Lucifer as the easier of two impossible targets.

He knew the story because she was one of the best angels he had causing chaos on Earth throughout those years in Hell, when he couldn't directly affect Earth or Heaven (and wasn't it always his best little angels that he could trust the least?).

She reminded him of demons, and as much as he wished she would have been able to see reason, he knew it was never an option. Her sense of self-preservation was strong (she did try killing him to save herself), but her desire to be unburdened by their Father's rules and orders was stronger.

"We are both many things, Enepsigos," he said to her body, laying in a quickly forming pool of blood surrounded by the image of wings scorched into the floor, "but unlike you, I was never a liar."

He left her there and wondered how many of his younger siblings he would be forced to kill and why they were incapable of seeing that their Dad returned and still cared for them, if they would allow it.

* * *

Sam stood in a field of grass, a clear night sky above him. A black car should have been difficult to spot in the darkness, no streetlights or cities or anything to offer illumination, but he'd recognize the Impala anywhere. It helped that the field was flat and made Baby visible with Dean reclined on her roof, beer in hand.

Dean heard him before he got there and looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Sam," he said. "Was wondering where you were. Wasn't sure you'd show up this time. I never drove into a field without you already with me, so I guess I don't get a real memory tonight. Wonder what my brain has cooked up instead."

Sam settled next to Dean on the car hood, filled with relief and using every ounce of willpower to take it slowly in explaining the situation and plan. But at the same time, Dean was alive and well and everything Sam thought he would never be again and that was enough to untwist knots in his gut that he didn't know existed. It took him a few tries to get into Dean's head, but all the effort felt worth it now. As long as Lucifer didn't notice what he was doing, things might actually be alright.

"Something a little crazy, but it's not entirely your fault," Sam said.

"A little?" Dean asked. "Sam, our lives are so far beyond crazy. We make the lizard people conspiracy theorists seem sane."

"Then that's going to make it a little easier when I tell you this isn't a dream. In the normal sense at least."

"Of course it's a dream. I went to sleep in the bunker, and now I'm in the middle of a field with my little brother who is currently possessed by the devil. You got a better explanation?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam said. "Think along the lines of African Dream Root."

Dean stared at Sam with narrow eyes. "You wouldn't be able to get any because, like I said, _Lucifer_ is riding you. The real you. Again."

Sam saw the exhaustion seep through into Dean's dream form and couldn't imagine how bad it must be for him in reality. Was he eating properly, sleeping, and taking care of himself?

Sam knew he wasn't.

"And I didn't say it _was_ African Dream Root."

"Then what?"

"Astral projection."

"You can't do astral projection, Sam," Dean said. "You had visions and whatever you want to call that demon exorcism-killing crap, not astral projection."

"Which is why I was able to learn how to do it," Sam said. "Some angels are taking the 'enemy of my enemy' saying a little seriously and one—named Bathin—taught me."

At Dean's look, Sam added, "You were the one who said our lives are beyond crazy. I think this qualifies."

"Why should I believe you?" Dean asked. "How do I know that you're not just part of a messed up dream, or Lucifer himself tormenting me because he knows that I want nothing more than to be able to talk to my brother who's gotten himself into another mess?"

"Look, I don't really care if you believe me or not right now, Dean. Just listen to this part because it's important," Sam said. "Important as in it could help solve this mess."

Dean sighed, shrugged, and sat up. "Alright, I'll roll with it for now," he said. "I'm all ears, Sammy."

"There's an angel named Procel that you need to talk to. If you don't believe that he exists, ask Cas. I'm sure he'd know about the guy. He's a fallen angel—but I guess no longer part of Lucifer's fan club—who specializes in lost and hidden things. The angel who helped me said he might know of a way to kill or trap Lucifer again."

"What specifically am I asking him for?" Dean asked. "What can he give us that gets rid of Lucifer, but keeps you around?"

_Now's not the time for you to be prioritizing my life, Dean. I have no idea what Lucifer will move on to after dealing with the fallen angels, but we need to take care of him before he can reach that point. No matter what._

"He couldn't, but Bathin promised that if I get Lucifer back into The Cage, he has enough friends with enough power that they could pull me out in one piece afterward."

"No."

"What?"

"No, we're not going with that plan," Dean said. "We find something else."

"There might not be something else, Dean."

Dean got off the car and paced in the grass. "Then we search until we find something else!" he yelled. "Real or just a dream, I'm not letting you throw yourself into Hell again."

"You said you weren't letting me the first time," Sam pointed out. "Just that you had to realize I wasn't a kid anymore."

"And all it got was you in Hell for almost two centuries, and the _memories_ of it were enough to almost kill you," Dean said, a bitter edge to his authoritative tone. "The answer to any plan involving Hell is 'no'."

"Dean," Sam said. Dean stopped pacing and faced him at the sound of his I'm-just-being-the-reasonable-one way of saying his name. "I'm just being realistic here, and I don't want to go back into The Cage—believe me, I don't—but it might be the only way to clean up this mess. I mean, this time there's at least a plan to get me out right away."

"I don't like this, Sam. There has got to be another way," Dean said. He gave Sam one of his signature smirks. "Think Amara would be willing to give us a hand? We did kinda have a thing."

Sam huffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes. "Have you started dating God's sister while I've been gone?"

Some of the humor fell from Dean's face and Sam wondered if the whole Amara being Dean's heart's greatest desire hadn't faded. How could he know when he hadn't seen Dean in so long and even now wasn't speaking with him in person? Dean wasn't even sure he was real right now, so he had to be taking all of this with a large dose of skepticism. He expected Dean to be dead (that _was_ the plan), but never considered Dean might live and what would come next for him.

"They took off on a family vacation to reconnect," Dean said. "I don't think we'll be hearing from either of them soon. But Chuck left the world alone for a long time already, so he probably figures it'll be fine for a little longer."

Sam felt a shiver run down his spine along with the suspicion that he was being watched. It was like someone submerged him in water and the world around him became sluggish and distorted. "Dean," he whispered. "Dean, I have to go. I have a bad feeling. Something's wrong."

"What? Sam, what bad feeling? What's wrong?"

He could almost see the gears in Dean's mind firing through all the possible (and likely impossible) things that could be causing Sam's bad feeling (and probably realizing beyond doubt that he _had_ been talking to _Sam_ the entire time). While Sam hoped it was just a feeling and nothing more, he also knew that things could never be easy for a Winchester.

He heard Dean yelling his name with more emotion than he let show through the entire dream combined, but the field faded away with his brother and he found himself standing in Bobby's panic room. He spared the empty cot a quick glance, too aware of how many times he found himself strapped down to it for one reason or another (usually demon blood related).

"Sam. Sam. Sam."

He turned to face Lucifer, who leaned against the closed and locked door. "Lucifer," he hissed.

"I paid your brother a visit," he said. "I never expected you would do the same. That you could do the same, albeit with a different method."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. Then Lucifer's words clicked in his head. "How could you visit Dean? You can't get in the bunker."

"The Men of Letters managed to."

"Men of Letters have keys—" Sam paused. "You took the keys from Toni, didn't you? Did you know Dean was alive, too?"

"I wouldn't have been able to get into the London Chapter's house otherwise, but having a vessel with legacy blood is a nice bonus. And when you have something of value, it's a good idea to keep it," Lucifer said.

He took a few steps closer to Sam, who moved a few steps back. "I killed them for _you_ , Sam. I killed all of them for what they did to you, and you go behind my back to seek out Dean on your own. What did you talk about with him?"

"Sports and hot women. What did you do to Dean?"

Lucifer put a hand over his chest and frowned, looking almost hurt by Sam's words. "I didn't do anything to your brother. We just had a nice chat. The angel on your shoulder—wait, that'd be me. The angel on _Dean's_ shoulder let slip that he was alive and I just had to see it for myself."

"Why would Cas tell you anything?" Sam asked.

"He came to me for help in finding you," Lucifer said. "His responsibility to Dean, honoring his final request and all. Then, when he found out you let me in, he begged me to leave for Dean's sake. He said you never would have agreed if you knew Dean was trailing after you."

_He's not wrong. It would have been easier to deal with if help was in sight, but only Lucifer's help was in sight._

Lucifer circled the room. "I almost didn't believe him at first, but it looked like Auntie Amara had a soft spot for your brother. Not only did he live, but he brought someone back with him. Alive and well, both of them."

"Who did he bring back?" Sam demanded. He refused to watch Lucifer circle him, so he stared straight ahead with his jaw clenched and hands balled into fists. Anger wasn't going to help him here.

"I'm not going to tell you, Sam," he said. "You've shown me that I can't trust you. So I'm going to leave you here until you prove to me that you've earned it."

Lucifer vanished, leaving Sam alone in the panic room.

_Dean brought someone back with him? Why didn't he mention it? Who was it? A gift from Amara, so someone important to him maybe?_

Sam sank onto the bare cot.

_If it's Dad, he's going to be so pissed. He would have rather had Dean kill me than let me turn into this._

If that was the case and John was somehow alive again, Sam almost hoped that the only plan to get rid of Lucifer meant he would die, too. He faced a disappointed father many times in the past, but never for something this big. He knew that the aftermath of their argument over this would end with him leaving again, practically kicked out of the family, because how could his father deal with his son becoming something worse than the thing that killed Mary? The thing he chased for over twenty years for vengeance?

He wouldn't be able to even look at Sam again, and Sam knew that. He just hated that he would be the reason Dean would be stuck in the middle of an impossible situation again. The only thing Sam could do was figure out a way to beat the devil again to at least earn a little bit of redemption, and Lucifer locking him here would give him plenty of time to think it over.

In the end, it was _his_ _own_ mind he occupied, not Lucifer's. Archangel or not, even he doesn't have the power to take everything from Sam.

* * *

Dean sat straight up in his bed, sleep no longer an option, still seeing Sam's distressed face right in front of him before everything faded away. Adrenaline rushed through him and begged him to act, to _do._ He almost wished he believed Sam immediately when he revealed that he was really there. At least then Dean would have had the chance to beat some sense into him instead of having to wait for this mess to be over. He took a second to calm his breathing, his body seemingly under the belief that he just woke up from a nightmare.

And his body was right. Or could be right, that would be option one: he had a nightmare. Plain and simple. The much more complicated option two: Sam did find a way to slip into his dreams while bunking with Lucifer in a single body. Option two also entailed treats like Sam making angel friends who want him to drag Lucifer back to Hell and something went really wrong because Sam looked to be on the verge of panicking when their meet-up ended.

On the other hand, option two meant that Sam _was_ still aware of the fact that whatever dream Lucifer cooked up for him wasn't real (contrary to his belief that Sam would be lost in it), and that Sam was still fighting as much as he could from the inside.

Even locked in his own mind, Sam figured out more options than Dean and Mary could in the two weeks they spent searching so far. However, Sam couldn't do more than relay the information to someone else. Him choosing Dean (the obvious choice) meant that Dean was left to take up the role of big brother to the rescue once again (his secret favorite).

He felt lighter than he had in over a month as he turned the light on in his room and stood in the middle. Maybe their choices for plans weren't great so far, but if that was Sam (and Dean knew it was beyond a doubt) and whoever Procel was did exist, then they were that much closer to having their little family back together again without the devil present.

"Castiel," Dean said, looking up out of habit while praying, "we might have a lead down here. It involves angels, and that's kinda your thing. So if you could hurry on up, that'd be great."

"Hello, Dean."

Dean turned around. Cas looked more unhappy than usual, which meant a lot when talking about a man who always had such a severe look on his face. Angels had a way of making their vessels _look_ controlled. Some less so, but to the trained eye, they still just looked off. But with Cas being so secretive lately, he ignored it as nothing more than that. Secrets. "You know a Procel?" he asked.

Cas tilted his head to the side. "Procel? Why do you ask about him?"

Dean ran a hand down his face. "Shit," he said. Check one for option two: Procel exists. "Okay, what do you know about astral projection? Could a human use it to dream walk?"

"Dean, I don't understand why you're asking."

"Just answer the question. Could a human do it?"

"It's not impossible," Cas said, guarded and confused. "But it would be highly unlikely unless that human fell somewhere on the psychic spectrum, or was at least sensitive to psychic energies."

_And here I thought that Sam's psychic freak show was over._

Check two for option two: Sam could astrally project himself into someone else's dreams.

"Is it something that can be taught?" Dean asked.

Cas looked like he thought Dean was losing his mind, and Dean couldn't blame him for that. Hell, he wondered about that himself more often than was probably healthy for someone his age. "Perhaps, but I don't know to what success. Astral projection was never a concern of mine. I can enter dreams using my Grace, so any other method is unnecessary."

A possible check three, but he knew deep down that he spoke with the real Sam, and there was a lot left that Dean wanted to say to Sam (beginning with how stupid he was for allowing Lucifer to ride him again). Until Sam was the only entity left in his body, Dean accepted that any dream walking encounter of theirs needed to be focused on figuring this out like any other hunt (despite the much higher stakes that came with Sam's situation this time around).

"Okay," Dean said, trying to organize his thoughts and slip into hunter mode (no matter how impossible turning off search and rescue mode was). "Let's start with Procel. Can you find him?"

"Dean, what's this all about? Procel is among the angels who fell with Lucifer, why would I want to seek him out?"

"Sam visited me in my dream—the real Sam—and said that an angel taught him how to use astral projection," Dean started. "He said that Procel might be able to help figure out a way to solve our Lucifer problem, but he can't contact him and asked for help. He said Procel specializes in lost and hidden things and believes that he has a way to kill or trap Lucifer."

"Why would the fallen angels rise against Lucifer? He's the reason they fell; they followed him down."

Dean shrugged. "Don't ask me, Sam's the one who's been talking to them."

"I can search for Procel," Cas said. "If anyone knew of another way to trap or kill Lucifer, it _would_ be him."

"Okay. But Cas, no plans that end with Sam dead or in Hell, understood?" he warned.

"I will do my best, Dean, but there is the possibility that another way might not exist."

Dean glared at him. "I'm hearing that enough from Sam, I don't need to hear it from you, too."

In the moment before Cas vanished, Dean swore he looked guilty and pitying, and Dean wondered just what secrets his friend was keeping from him.

In the meantime, he hoped Crowley and Rowena hurried up in looking through the Book of the Damned. He'd rather take his chances with a spell than with a Cas keeping secrets, because the latter never panned out well for any of them and what could using the Book of the Damned do that was worse than releasing Amara?

* * *

Cas stood in the middle of Vatican City, invisible to human eyes. While faith dwindled in the world, it remained strong in Vatican City. Constant. Cas always felt stronger there, fueled by the collective belief of the holy who made it their home.

Procel, he found, had taken up residence in the body of a clergy man. He noticed Cas' presence the second he stepped into the tiny bedroom as he greeted him without looking up from the book on his desk. "Hello, brother."

"You're Procel," Cas said. "Sam Winchester said to search for you. He said you might know of a way to kill or trap Lucifer."

That got Procel's attention and he turned in his chair to face Cas. "There are many ways to cage that beast, but only one way to kill him," he said. "How did Winchester know to have you search for me?"

"Astral projection, it would seem. Will you help us?" Cas asked.

"Bathin." Procel scowled, saying the name like that alone offended him. "Fine, I will give you information and nothing more. What you do with the knowledge is your own business."

"I'm grateful, but why plot against Lucifer after falling with him?"

Procel sighed. "The word is that Lucifer feels that God forgiving him means he must prove he deserves that forgiveness. A self-imposed penance of sorts. He's killing fallen angels who refuse to reconcile with God. So many have been slaughtered at his hand already, and while he hasn't come for me yet, I have no doubt he will soon enough. If you can take care of him before that, then all the better for me."

"Why not reconcile?"

"If our absent Father wants something from me after all these years, He can come Himself. It isn't Lucifer's business anymore and Heaven and Hell no longer concern me. My concern is knowledge, nothing else."

Cas nodded. "Very well. Last time we needed the rings of the Four Horsemen to open his cage, do you know where the rings are now?"

Procel shook his head. "Only three of them. Death's was lost with Death. It's either destroyed or very far away in a place neither you nor I could reach. I can only offer you information on two things. With time, perhaps I could find more, but as it stands I have no more at this moment."

"Two things is more than I could have hoped for, brother. What are they?"

Procel held up one finger. "Michael's Archangel Blade—one of the only blades that can kill Lucifer." He held up a second finger. "The location of the original gate to The Cage, where Michael cast Lucifer into The Pit and locked him in his prison."

" _But Cas, no plans that end with Sam dead or in Hell, understood?"_

Guilt washed through him at the thought of going against Dean's wishes, but the situation offered little choice. If Lucifer was killing those who were once so loyal to him, what goal would he pursue next?

"I will hear what you have to say about both," Cas said. "I fear they may be our only option, no matter how unpleasant their consequence."

While Dean was unwilling to let his brother go, Sam sounded willing to do what it took to save the world from Lucifer once more. He could only hope that Dean would trust in him and Sam this time.


	8. Spell It Out For Me

_With all of the moving they did, snow days were rare treats. The best part—for Dean—was school canceling. Class meant watching time burn away while people died because some ass-hats in suits thought they knew what was best for the youth of America._

_It was the first time they returned to Wisconsin for a case since Fort Douglas (not counting the times they passed through the state without spending the night), and the idea of staying in the state again made Dean more than a little nervous. Four years later, and even with a bit of hunting experience, he still started to have nightmares of the Striga sucking the life out of Sam once his father announced their next destination._

_Only in his nightmares, Dad never arrived in time._

_Sam got up early, and Dean ignored the sounds of him getting ready for the day by rolling over and pulling the blankets higher over his head, trying to savor the cocoon he made before he'd be forced to face the cold and get Sam and himself to school. That task grew more difficult when Sam turned the TV on, but he at least had the courtesy to lower the volume._

_Just when Dean finally felt sleep drawing him back in, Sam shook him back awake._

_His first instinct was to grab the knife under his pillow, but then he realized that Sam was bouncing around out of excitement and wasn't panicking._

_He groaned and threw a pillow at Sam as he sat up. "Can't you leave me alone until I have to get up for school?" he asked. "I know you like watching the sunrise, but_ I _don't."_

" _Snow day, Dean," Sam said._

_Dean must have looked confused because Sam rolled his eyes (on days like that he should have seen the teen rebellion phase coming) and pointed at the screen, where a list of school districts with 'closed' written after them streamed across the bottom. "School's canceled. We don't have to go."_

_He watched the name of every closed school scroll by in alphabetical order again before he realized that their district was among the listed. Out of all the situations he'd been prepared to handle, this wasn't one of them. With Sam grinning at him, still wearing his pajamas. He felt the pressure to make the day fun for him, but what did kids do on snow days? Other than not going to school, what made them any more special than a normal day?_

" _Should probably start with breakfast," Dean said, sleep forgotten._

_Sam shrugged, but complied and sat across from Dean at the table to eat a simple bowl of cereal. When Sam got excited, getting him to take a minute and eat was one of the hardest things Dean had to do. Kid didn't want to waste time doing something that_ helps him stay alive, _and the burden of responsibility fell to Dean. Of course he'd get stuck with the one kid who seemed to have zero sense of self-preservation for a little brother._

_They didn't have proper clothes for playing in the snow (never really needed them), but that was exactly what Sam wanted to do after eating._

" _Just a snowman, Dean," Sam said. "How long could that take to build?"_

" _We don't have snow pants or even proper winter jackets, Sam," Dean said. "You'll just be soaked and cold. Then, shortly after, you'll be sick. And then I'm the one who has to take care of your sneezing ass."_

" _I won't get sick."_

_Dean rolled his eyes. "You can't just say you won't get sick and then not get sick, Sam. It doesn't work that way."_

" _Just for a little bit, Dean," he plead. "What's the point in having a snow day if I can't enjoy the snow?"_

_Dean pushed himself from his seat. "There's probably not even that much snow," he said. He peaked through the window, feeling the chill of the air outside as he grew closer despite the heater in the motel room doing its best to fight and keep them warm (although the air pumping out of it had a burning smell that concerned Dean). "Okay, there's a lot of snow. But you still aren't going outside. You'll freeze. I can feel the cold just from standing by the window."_

_It wouldn't be that bad to let Sam go outside for a bit, and Dean knew that Sam was going to beg until he got to—with or without Dean's permission. But this was Wisconsin, and didn't Sam remember the last time they were here? Didn't he remember almost having the life sucked out of him and how lucky they both were that their Dad chose that moment to come back?_

_Apparently not. Thinking back, Sam asked on the way there if they'd ever done a hunt in Wisconsin before because he wasn't sure. Dad told him no, and Dean was grateful for that. If they pretended it never happened, Sam would forget Dean's monumental failure in time._

_In less than ten minutes, Dean found himself outside the motel room watching Sam enjoy his snow day. He felt like the recess supervisor at Sam's elementary school, conveniently located where Dean could look out of the window and see it during certain classes (gotta love when the elementary, middle, and high schools are lined up so nicely, it makes being the older sibling that much easier). He wouldn't be able to let Sam stay outside for very long, but he did his best to bundle him up in a feeble attempt to ward off the bone-deep cold._

_It took Sam about five minutes of asking Dean if he's sure he just wants to stand there every thirty seconds before he gave in. He felt a little old for playing in the snow, but Sam burst with enough enthusiasm for the both of them._

" _What happened to building a snowman, Sammy?"_

" _I know, but it'd just get knocked over when they plowed the parking lot," Sam said._

_He kept his tone lighthearted, but Dean heard what he said beneath it. A snowman, so simple, would just end up being another impermanent object in their lives._

_But Dean was determined to be a permanent part of Sam's life, take away all of the pain that he could, and flopped onto his back, unintentionally sending Sam into a panic of "Dean, are you okay? Why are you laying in the middle of the lot?"_

" _Snow angels, Sammy," Dean said._

" _But they'll just get plowed away, too."_

" _Maybe," Dean said. "But we'll know they were here."_

_Sam stared at him for a long time while Dean tried to ignore him by pretending to be wrapped up in making a snow angel. He remembered his mom telling him that angels were watching over him, and he imagined that she would have been on the ground right next to him making an angel of her own with a smile._

_Sam made one next to him, content to lay and let fresh snowflakes fall down on him (snowflakes which were falling at an increasing rate, Dean noticed)._

_Dean would have let him stay outside, but he was cold and knew Sam had to be getting cold, if he wasn't already. So, he helped Sam to his feet and brushed snow off his back before ushering him back into the motel room. "Happy?" he asked._

_Sam nodded._

_A few days later, curled up in a mound of blankets on his bed, Sam told Dean that the fever was worth it._

Dean re-watched the video on the news website for the fifth or sixth time before he called his mom over to check it out.

"What is it?" Mary asked. "Just some markings by corpses?"

"Scorched images of angel wings," Dean said. "That's what happened when an angel is killed, which I forgot to mention when I went over Angel 101 with you. Sorry, I didn't think it'd end up being important. Anyway, I guess their Grace, or whatever, marks the ground by their vessel when they die. People are reporting these all over the world. Angels on Earth are being killed faster than ever before. Fast enough for people to notice these wings appearing way too often to be just a coincidence."

The peaceful faces with arms and images of wings spread to the side reminded him of ten year old Sam making one of the few snow angels he ever had the chance to during that snow day in Wisconsin.

"Why?"

Dean shrugged, pausing the video and leaving the on-site reporter frozen mid-sentence. "When Sam talked to me in my dream, he said that there are fallen angels who aren't followers of Lucifer anymore. In fact, it sounds like a fair number of them don't even want him around. So I'd bet anything that all of these angels being killed are fallen, and Lucifer is the one killing them."

"Is there a pattern? Maybe we could use it to track him," Mary said.

Ever since Dean told her about Sam's dream walking adventure into his head, Mary became more upbeat than ever and threw herself into the hunt like she'd never left the life to begin with. She said she knew they didn't need to use the Angel Suppression Sigil to tell him to fight anymore, but she wished he tried entering her dreams so that she could finally talk to him (and _not_ Satan looking like him).

"No, they look completely random. If it wasn't for the wings, no one would have ever brought this up as something other than an increased murder rate."

Mary sighed. "He hasn't slipped into one of your dreams again?"

"I wish," Dean said. "I don't know what happened to him at the end last time, but I wish I knew that he was okay."

Dean's phone buzzed on the table and he picked it up. From her clearing her throat, Dean realized that his mom read the caller ID displaying '666' from over his shoulder. He answered, wondering how he was going to explain this to his mother (or if she thought that Dean and Lucifer had swapped phone numbers at some point and were on a chatting basis). "Any news on the book?"

"Hello to you, too, Squirrel," Crowley said, as mildly annoyed as ever. "And yes, my wretched mother has managed to decode a spell she thinks might be of use."

"Let's hear it."

"She described it as appearing to be a body vacating spell."

"Okay, what the hell does that mean?" Dean asked.

Crowley muttered, but Dean couldn't hear it clearly. "A vessel lets things in," he said. "This forces things out."

"Sounds too good to be true. What's the catch?"

"Do I look like a bloody witch to you?"

"I always thought you were aiming more for the washed up businessman angle."

He tried to ignore his mother leaning in to hear what she could from the phone, an action he occasionally jabbed his elbow into Sam's ribs for doing throughout the years.

"Lucky for you, I still think Lucifer will set his eyes on Hell next. Otherwise I'd let you get yourself out of this mess. No one knew the consequence of removing the Mark—other than Death, apparently—so we don't know what happens when this spell is used, or even what the whole body vacating thing means. We're going in blind, which always seems to be the case."

"Rowena can't do some educated guessing?"

"'Fraid not. She says it's strong stuff, but she's never heard of something like this being done. Think an exorcism, but in spell form."

"So an angel exorcism?"

"If we're lucky."

"'If we're lucky'?" Dean echoed. "What the hell do you mean by 'if we're lucky'? What if we're _not_ lucky?"

"Figuring that out's part of the fun, isn't it?" Crowley asked. "If you're going to gamble, you're going to take some risks, Dean. That's just how it works. Lucky: it's the angel exorcism you're looking for. Unlucky: well, who knows?"

"Just remember, Crowley, if this plan goes South, I'll be sure to tell Lucifer how involved you were," Dean said. "And I know he'll enjoy smiting your sorry ass."

"I'm aware, and I'd be lucky if smiting was the only thing he had in store for me. Did you actually think that I was helping you because I care about your problems?"

"You don't have to care. You just have to make sure Sam makes it through this alive, or Lucifer will be the least of your problems."

"You sure know how to sweet talk a woman. Back to business. We'll be able to cast the spell in a few days, some of the supplies is a little tricky to get, but not like for removing the Mark—and lucky for you, since there isn't anyone else left that my mother loves and could kill for the spell. See you then."

The call ended and Dean set down his phone. He looked at Mary's anxious face. "There's a spell that forcefully vacates a body. The witch thinks it acts like some sort of exorcism, but there's no way to know for sure until she actually uses it, which she'll be ready for in a few days."

"And you're going to have her use it?" Mary asked. "She's a witch, Dean. Can you even trust her?"

"I'll never trust her, but it's not like we have a better plan and I have to think about saving Sam before anything else. If that means trusting a witch, well, at least I won't kill her. Crowley knows that if this goes wrong, he's just as screwed as we are."

"Who's Crowley, and why is he listed as '666' in your phone?" Mary asked. She had that I'm-your-mother-and-you-better-answer-right-now look that Dean got incredibly acquainted with over the past weeks.

Dean knew that teaching her about modern technology was a terrible idea. There was way too much she could learn about both of them that he'd rather her not find out ever. Like how Charlie read about their entire lives through the god awful (and written by God, as it turned out) _Supernatural_ books.

"He's the King of Hell right now," Dean said. "I thought it'd be funny to put him as '666' in my contacts, and it is."

"Why do you have the _King of Hell_ in your contacts?" Mary demanded. "Demons aren't your friends!"

"It's kind of a long story," Dean said. He hoped she'd leave it at that, but his mother was nothing if not as stubborn as the rest of the Winchesters (how did two people as stubborn as John and Mary manage to get a marriage to work out?).

"I have time."

Dean took a deep breath before he started his story, wishing he could tell her about Sammy and snow angels instead of Hell and demons.

* * *

"Zorats Karer."

"In Armenia?" Cas asked. "What about it?"

Procel grinned. "It was the first gate to open into Lucifer's cage, back when Michael cast him into The Pit. Not only that, but Michael left his blade there in memory of his fallen brother. He loved Lucifer, but he didn't dare disobey God. His only act of rebellion, small as it seemed, was leaving his sword and vowing that he would never pick it up again unless Lucifer was released."

"But Michael was prepared to fight Lucifer," Cas said. "He wouldn't dare to show up at Stull without his blade."

Procel cleared his throat. "I would have gotten to that point in the story," he said. "You younger angels don't appreciate the history behind what you seek. It's why I chose to fell. I don't want to take orders. I want to collect and discover. Anyway, you're right. Michael _did_ retrieve his blade, and he took it to Hell with him."

"How do I open the Zorats Karer gate?" Cas asked.

"Michael would know, he was the one who locked it. I never found out how he did it or what the key to reopen it is, but I _do_ know that it's design is no accident. Perhaps one of the rocks outlining the gate is a hidden lock waiting for its key. Either way, your next stop is The Cage if you want to know anymore than that."

"You have to have another way. Anything."

"You came in here for help, and I gave you what I could offer. You want something that can kill or trap an _archangel_ , and things that can do that are few and far between," Procel said, his voice disconnected and calm. Matter-of-fact. "You can go to The Cage and pursue the only hope you have, or you can try and find another way and hope you can do so in time. The Cage is even weakened, thanks to The Darkness. You should at least be able to speak with Michael within it."

They stood in silence until Procel said, "The other Winchester won't be happy that you're planning to kill or throw his brother into Hell again."

Cas remembered Sam knowing that his decision to thwart the apocalypse meant damning himself, but insisted upon seeing his plan through. While Dean tried his best to dissuade him with stories of what Hell was like for himself (which he hated to talk about) and reminding Sam that his Hell would be infinitely worse, Sam just shrugged and said he had to clean up his own mess (leading into another bout of arguing with Dean). Then Sam gave Dean an unhappy smile that Cas couldn't quite understand and their argument died down.

"I know the risks, but I also know the risks of letting Lucifer continue to roam freely," Cas said. "I made the mistake of letting him out of his cage this time, and I don't think Amara will be willing to expel Lucifer from Sam like she did me. Therefore, the burden falls to me to correct this mistake. Then I'll do whatever I have to in order to recover Sam, alive and well. I'll go to God and beg him to return Sam. Anything it takes."

"I wish you luck, brother. You're going to need it."

* * *

"Sam." Lucifer drew the single syllable of his name out for far too long in his sing-song voice. "I can feel you bustling about."

His voice signaled that Sam was running out of time. Lucifer may have locked him in Bobby's panic room, but it was still Sam's mind and he learned a few new tricks.

One: it was still _his_ mind and not Lucifer's. No matter how much control over it Lucifer siphoned from him, when he wanted it enough, he found the knife Dean kept under his pillow under the pillow on the sad cot.

Two: some laws of nature seemed to still apply. Such as when he was cut, he still bled.

That was how the panic room ended up half-covered by an incomplete attempt at angel warding it in his blood. He realized that a stick of charcoal would have been an infinitely better option as blood had an annoying tendency to drip and smear so easily. The inside of the panic room looked like a slaughterhouse, but it was the blood of one man inside his own head, and it hadn't hurt in the slightest to draw.

But the sound of footsteps in the hall drew closer, and his time was up. He didn't know if his angel proofing would have kept Lucifer out (working off hypotheses was his only option), but he was willing to try.

The door opened with the telltale groan of a door parched for oil. Lucifer stepped inside and inspected the symbols Sam managed to paint before being caught. He ran his fingertips over one, distorting its shape and staining his skin. He gave the entire room a once-over, looking vaguely impressed (and wasn't that enough to send shivers down Sam's spine?). "Sam. Sam. Sam," he said. "Angel proofing? Really? I thought we were friends."

"I'm not sure friends lock friends in rooms and refuse to let them out."

"Brothers seem fond of doing it," Lucifer said, his eyes found Sam's with a dangerous glint. Taunting and amused. "How many times, exactly, has Dean locked you in this room? The big brother you love so much, and he left you here. He listened to your screams and let you keep screaming."

"He did what he thought he had to," Sam ground out, defending actions that still shoved a dagger into his heart. His own brother tricked him into imprisonment, how could he not have seen that he had gone so far off the reservation that Dean thought he had no other options?

Lucifer took a few steps closer, arms lifted slightly from his sides in an I'm-speaking-the-truth way. Unassuming, nonthreatening, and palms facing forwards. "When _I_ heard you screaming, I came to offer you help. I sought you out to take away your pain."

"Dean would've done anything to make demon blood detoxing painless for me. But none of us even knew the process because we've never encountered something like that before."

They weren't memories that he enjoyed reliving, but talking about the demon blood brought back a flood of bits of conversation and condemnation. Only his phantom mother told him he was doing the right thing. His past self had looked at him with disgust, but at that age normal still felt like a possibility and not a delusion he tried to fool himself into believing.

But seeing Dean was the worst. To have the one person he always trusted more than anyone else, the person who always had his back no matter how many times Sam messed up over the years. Somehow, Dean managed to stick around and forgive him for things which he wasn't sure he could forgive himself.

They had their issues and hurt each other (what sort of siblings haven't?), but when it counted, they always did what they thought would be best for the other. And he would defend Dean's choices against Lucifer until the end of time if he had to.

"Was it really hurting you, Sam?" Lucifer asked. "A minor addiction, sure, but you never felt stronger than when you were knocking back gallons of blood. As for the detox, well, few things hurt more than that, right? You were sure you wouldn't be leaving this room, the second time around especially. Feel free to jump in if you think I'm wrong, Sam. If you think I'm lying."

Lucifer smirked at his silence. "That's what I thought. It's been how many years, and you still get that odd craving more than you care to admit. Where will Dean lock you up the next time you crumble and cave to temptation? Not that there will be a next time. You're stuck here. With me."

Sam let him talk and slowly drew an Angel Banishing Sigil low on the wall. So far, Lucifer didn't seem to notice, but he remained careful. He tapped his bloodied hand against it and Lucifer vanished in a flash of light, though not before Sam caught the surprise on his face (surprise that his own face echoed).

He rushed out of the room and concentrated on slipping from his body. Bathin's practices required patience and calm, but Sam didn't have time for either of those.

He opened the door leading out of Bobby's basement. Then, he was staring up at the Devil's Trap ceiling fan of the panic room, limbs unwilling to cooperate with him and move.

Lucifer's face entered his line of sight. "I tried to give you peace, but you couldn't leave well enough alone, Sam," he said. "It really does hurt me to see you like this. To be forced to restrain you like this."

Sam bit back any response trying to fight it's way out of his mouth. He recognized the straps keeping him down. They were leather with markings carved into them, and they kept him tied to what made him think of a sick, altered dentist's chair, one with armrests that stretched to the sides in order to keep his arms still.

"You hallucinated these straps binding you down while you were detoxing," Lucifer said, aware of his confusion at seeing something so oddly familiar. "If you can be a good little vessel, I might consider removing them."

"I will never stop fighting you," Sam said. "This doesn't end until one of us is dead. And it's going to be you."

Lucifer gave him that pitying look (which he saw so often in Hell), the kind generally reserved for the patients in a hospital so close to death, they don't realize anymore that they're dying and no one can stop it. "Why do you think it would be you? You're just a man."

"I have people waiting for me to come back," Sam said. Simple as that. Dean was waiting, and Sam would go to him like it was just another school day when he was a kid and Dean waited at the Impala to take him home.

"And I don't?"

"Do you?"

Lucifer didn't answer, but Sam found himself alone in the room. He stared up at the ceiling because there was nothing else he could do and tried to figure out a solution for this latest problem.

* * *

Dean wandered through a nondescript abandoned building, the collection of buildings he had done hunts in over the years rolled together into something both familiar and new. But this wasn't a memory, so he held out hope that he would run into Sam soon and find out what happened last time he invaded his dreams and why he hasn't been back.

"Sam!" he called. "C'mon, man. You found me in the middle of a field last time, you can find me here."

He heard his name, muted by distance and rotted wood walls. He headed down the stairs. "Sammy?"

"In here," came the reply, clearer and closer.

A door opened and Sam walked through it, flashing a smile at Dean. "Ended up in the basement," he explained. He shut the door. "I don't recommend going down there."

Dean closed the distance between them with a few quick steps and shook Sam with his hands on Sam's shoulders. "What the hell happened last time, Sam? Are you okay? What took you so long to dream walk me again?"

Sam batted his arms away to stop the shaking. "Calm down, Dean. I'm fine."

The image of Sam's panicked face flashed in his mind again and Dean shook his head. "I saw you, Sam. You were terrified."

"Well, I'm fine now," Sam said.

Dean looked closer at his brother, unable to dismiss the feeling that something was off. Years of watching after Sam left him with an instinct that made his stomach sink when Sam was in danger or hurting, and that instinct made itself known with alarms going off in his head as he faced Sam.

Sam was too calm. No matter how well he schooled his expression into one at complete peace, Sam never learned to stop his eyes from revealing his feelings to the world if someone knew how to read them. And no one knew how to read Sam better than Dean. When Sam stared back at Dean, utterly blank, Dean knew this wasn't right.

Maybe it was just a hopeful dream and Sam hadn't returned to him yet. There were worse scenarios like—

It all clicked together and Dean drew the gun from the waist of his jeans, cocking and pointing it at Sam. "You aren't Sam," he said. "But this isn't just a dream either."

Sam looked amused, maybe even a little impressed. "What gave it away?" he asked.

"Sam is a freaking nuclear reactor of emotions waiting to go Chernobyl," Dean said. "He could never hide it as completely as you are. He could never be so blank without looking like he was dead on the inside."

Which, for all he knew, could be the truth at this point. Saving Sam from Lucifer had been his priority for weeks now, but now the urgency of it kicked up a few notches.

"Very good, Dean. You figured it out quicker than I expected."

Dean kept his gun trained on him, knowing that it wouldn't do a damn thing if he fired. "Lucifer, right? Come to mock me looking like Sam again?"

"Sam did a bad thing, sneaking out to talk to you. And you just can't seem to let him go," Lucifer said. "Even after all of the times he ran away—ran towards me—you continue to drag him back into _your_ fights."

"He always came back on his own," Dean said. "And I returned him to Stanford after we cleared out that woman in white. Sure he came back because he wanted vengeance, but he still came back to me."

"He didn't after he left Hell, not until you were in danger and he had to swoop in to save the Deansel in distress."

"He didn't have a soul. That doesn't count."

He didn't want to listen to Lucifer critique his relationship with Sam in _his own head_. It felt invasive and wrong, especially since Lucifer had to be shuffling through Sam's memories to know as much as he did.

"Details," Lucifer said. "The main point is that you have to let him go, Dean. Let him go and stay gone. You've spent your whole life trying to play hero for him, but you can't save him from me."

"Like hell I can't," Dean yelled. He fired off a few rounds into Lucifer. They didn't hurt him, it was just a dream, but it gave him a bit of satisfaction until the blood starting to coat _Sam's_ shirt on _Sam's_ body.

"You're not understanding me, Dean," Lucifer said.

He knocked the gun from Dean's hands and the house around them became Bobby's basement, right outside of his panic room. Lucifer gestured for Dean to look through the peephole of the panic room's door. When Dean made no effort to move, Lucifer jerked his head in the direction of the door again.

Dean took slow, deliberate steps, keeping his glare focused on Lucifer and waiting for it all to turn out to be a trap. He wasn't well-versed in dream walking, so there might be a possibility that Lucifer would be able to trap him in his own mind. Make it so he couldn't wake up and keep searching for a way to kick Lucifer out of Sam.

He made it to the door without incident, Lucifer merely kept an air of amusement with a threat hidden beneath it, and looked inside.

Sam strapped down in the panic room was nostalgic and left him numb. He pushed down the guilt, reminding himself that every time he locked Sam in here was for his brother's own good.

" _At least he'll die human."_

But that couldn't wipe away the guilt, just blocked it. Locked it away in his lead box with the rest of his unwanted emotions.

"He can't see or hear you," Lucifer said, answering unspoken questions. "It's just an image of _his_ mind right now."

"What happened to all of that giving him peace crap?"

Sam, image or not, looked lost in thought and Dean wasn't sure he could have gotten through to Sam had he actually been there. He knew that look, the one that meant Sam was going to sit there until he figured out a solution to whatever problem he currently faced. A fact of life that left Dean proud and terrified.

"I did give him peace, but then he found out you weren't lost in The Empty. Of course, Sam had to start fighting against me to try and reach you. Neither of you will give up, but I will do you the honor of warning you right now. If you persist and keep trying to remove me from Sam, I will ensure that Sam won't survive it."

Dean turned with his hand in a fist already heading towards Lucifer (looking like Sam or not, he didn't care at that moment), but before his knuckles connected, he woke up.

He woke violently, his brain not getting the message that dream-time ended and Lucifer wasn't in front of him anymore as his fist rushed through only air.

In the dark, he fumbled to grab his phone and find Crowley's number. Each ring without an answer hurt like taking a punch he didn't expect, couldn't prepare for. Lucifer could be lying about Sam, messing with him, but he doubted it. Lucifer was a lot of things, but he kept to his policy of not lying. He didn't always tell the truth, but omitting facts was different from altering them.

It felt like a lifetime passed before Crowley picked up, and Dean reminded himself that having Sam for a brother meant his hair would shift to grey a few decades earlier than normal.

"What do you want, Squirrel? I said days, not hours."

"Yeah, any chance we can get an express delivery on that spell?" Dean asked. "Lucifer isn't very happy."


	9. Caged Animals

Cas entered the room just as Crowley snapped his phone shut with a scowl. A scowl that deepened when he looked over and caught sight of Cas.

"One problem after another with you lot, isn't it? What would your ridiculous request be?"

"I need passage to The Cage so I can speak with Michael." All business.

"Why would you want to do something like that?" Crowley asked, his voice raising a little higher as he neared the end of his question.

"He knows ways to take care of Lucifer," Cas said. "Ways that might be our only options."

"You suppose he can still answer whatever questions you have?" Crowley asked. He got up and left the room with Cas in tow. "Michael didn't know Hell, not like Lucifer did. He wasn't prepared for its intensity, and combined with the wrath of his brother—comfortable in his own domain—he cracked."

"What do you mean that he cracked?"

Crowley shrugged and tucked his hands in his pockets. "Most days, he just sits there. Alone in The Cage with Adam—whose condition is no better. Some days, if you stand outside of The Cage where he can see you, he'll attempt to participate in conversation, but you'd need a lot of luck on your side for that to be that case."

"I have to try," Cas said. He hoped that Michael's state could be brushed off as the result of him being unwilling to talk to demons. Short of Lucifer—and now Cas—it was likely that no angels would seek him out. Him and a human soul. No Lucifer. No Sam. No torment. Just nothing.

The nothing he suspected Dean longed for after Sam threw himself into Hell, but didn't search for out of respect for his brother.

At the bottom of a spiral stairway, an oversized door stood. Ornate and ominous. Crowley opened it and stepped to the side.

"Why are you taking a break, Crowley?" Cas asked. The actions didn't anger him, but they did confuse him and he was working on a time limit at the moment.

Crowley shook his head. "Oh, no. I'm not following you beyond this point. You're on your way to the real cage, not Rowena's toy version. I've been in front of it before, and don't want to be there again."

"It's that bad?"

"I suppose you were too caught up in your pride and taking the shortcut when you retrieved Sam's _body_ to notice last time. It's bad, but it's especially bad for demons. The path down the rest of the way is brutal enough to drain the best of us demons of our power. We have to crawl out on most occasions because we'll die if we stay. Archangel Grace has that effect in Hell. Its strength is more pure here than even in Heaven. Turns us into sniveling messes, and I like my dignity intact."

"Why would it be more pure?" Cas asked. He never heard of that tidbit before. Never thought of it.

Crowley flashed him a smile. "You angels were ordered to keep things like me in check, wouldn't Daddy think to give you a bit of angelic steroids when you visited our den? Make sure you were the warriors He needed you to be?"

Cas nodded. "I… appreciate your assistance, Crowley. If this is as far as you'll go, I'll be on my way now," he said. He walked past the door and continued on the winding path to The Cage.

Without Lucifer, The Cage was vastly different from the brief glimpse he captured when he first saw it in his mission to retrieve Sam. The twisted prison built of blood, fire, sulfur, and screams was no more. There were just bars wrought out of Grace and engraved with ancient Enochian symbols, some that not even Cas knew. It was one of God's last creations, and its purpose was to hold His most beloved son.

It was one of the most beautiful things—demanding reverence and begging for peace—Cas ever laid eyes upon, never having noticed in his rush to be in-and-out with Sam in tow last time. Lucifer had always been rumored to be beautiful among angels, Cas heard the stories long before Lucifer ever walked the earth and met him. Their Father created a cage to reflect that, and Cas wondered if it was out of a feeling of guilt or regret.

Now it held His most obedient son (and that son's secondary vessel, Adam), an angel severely punished for following orders. Michael's sadness and confusion grew thicker in the air the closer Cas got to The Cage. It was no wonder why demons couldn't set foot here for long; they no longer comprehended those feelings. Not anymore. To have emotions forced upon them left them confused and disoriented. Sniveling messes, as Crowley put it.

Michael's head raised once Cas was close enough. If he recognized Cas, it didn't show.

Cas stopped himself from saying 'Lucifer is free and I need your help' because of course Michael knew Lucifer roamed Earth again. It was Lucifer's Cage he sat in, and without Lucifer, it was just some place that contained him. A place he couldn't break out of on his own, not with all the symbols etched into the bars.

"Michael," he said, "I need your help."

He stared, and Cas wasn't sure whether or not he waited for elaboration or if Crowley was right and Hell had taken its toll on an angel never meant to reside there.

"You know how to open the first gate at Zorats Karer, don't you?" Cas asked.

Michael chuckled at that, amusement lighting up his shadowed expression. "You don't understand. I _am_ the key to that gate. You would need to release me before you could use it."

"The Cage was damaged by The Darkness, is there no way to release you?"

Michael shook his head. "Not anytime soon. The Cage, when you are first imprisoned in it, shocks away your power. Lucifer was less affected, having gone through it before, and once The Cage sustained damage it was only a matter of time before he found a way to break free. But I'm still recharging. I don't yet have the ability to reopen Zorats Karer and let myself out—yes, it's a gate that works both ways. A precaution I never would have thought necessary, but for which I am grateful."

"I will help you if I can, brother, but I need to deal with Lucifer first. Do you have your blade with you?" Cas asked.

"I'm supposed to be the one who fights Lucifer," he said. His disinterestedly sad demeanor reforged itself into something fierce and angry. "It is _my_ destiny, not yours."

"No, Michael. I'm sorry, brother, but it's no longer your destiny. This story isn't the one you read. It's something new. Something different and fueled by free will and determination. Let me borrow your blade, then I will return and help release you however I can," Cas said.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Michael asked. "You scorched me with Holy Fire during our last confrontation."

"I did what I had to do. We keep our words."

"We twist our words. Your attempt at helping me might be rattling the bars of my cage, but you could say you tried and be done with it. I want your word that you will continue to help me until I am freed," Michael demanded.

"It's yours."

Michael appeared satisfied by that answer and held his blade, an air of sadness enveloping him again. "I have enough power to pass my blade through to you," he said, "but be sure to tell Lucifer that I wish it was by my hand. I raised him, and it should be my duty to carry out his execution."

"I'll tell him for you," Cas promised. He left The Cage's area before it could drain him anymore. Michael reminded him of Dean in many ways, and he wondered if Michael had been the one to kill Lucifer, would he follow after his little brother like Dean would Sam?

* * *

Dean's leg bounced on the ball of his foot and he reached for the shot glass on the table, looked at it, and put it back when he noticed its emptiness. If she hadn't drained the bunker (their home?) of all the liquor, Mary wasn't sure what state Dean would be in right now.

Given how the entire building reeked of alcohol when she first arrived—and the smell was just now starting to fade—she suspected that Dean would probably have been unable to remember his own name by the time he was done because something was really bothering him, but he refused to elaborate on what.

"Are we doing the right thing here?" he asked. "I mean, what if it's a bad idea to force Lucifer out of Sam?"

Mary wanted to be angry with Dean, hearing him give up like that. To give into second thoughts after going as far as asking the _King of Hell_ and his _witch_ mother for help because the witch is the only one who can decipher a book called 'The Book of the Damned'. If all of that didn't spell out a bad idea, nothing could. And despite all of it, Dean still wanted to go through with it because it gave him a chance to save his little brother from the devil.

But she saw how drained and broken he looked. All this time, he tried so hard to keep standing tall and strong, but she watched him crumbling from the inside out.

"How could that be a bad thing? You can't tell me that you don't want Lucifer out of Sam. You've been running yourself ragged looking for answers," Mary said, careful to keep her tone gentle (an easy task considering Dean was supposed to still be four years old in her mind).

"Of course, I want Lucifer out of Sam, but there's a lot of 'what if's that we're looking at here."

Mary reached across the table and settled her hand on Dean's arm. "We knew that from the beginning, Dean. What's shaking your confidence?"

"I had a dream," Dean said after a moment of hesitation long enough to make Mary wonder whether he'd answer at all.

"Sammy?" she asked. At some point, she might have to force herself into the habit of calling him 'Sam'. He wasn't the baby she remembered (that man she met wasn't Sam, it was just Lucifer looking like him), and she wasn't sure how well he'd take to her nickname for him (although Dean still called him 'Sammy' sometimes so maybe…?).

Dean shook his head. "Lucifer pretending to be Sam. Like this is all just a game to him."

"Whatever he said, it was out of self-preservation," Mary said. "If he found out about what we're doing, of course he'd want to stop us. But he can't hurt us, Dean. You told me about his promise to Sammy. We're safe."

When Dean met her eyes, her breath stopped for a moment. Those were the eyes of the tiny boy she remembered waking her up after a nightmare and asking without speaking if he could stay with them for the rest of the night. "He didn't promise not to hurt Sam," Dean said.

"What did he say to you, Dean?" Mary asked.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, looking just like the woman he was named after when her father came up with a crazy solution to take down the object of their current hunt. Exasperated. Too tired to argue. Too worried and trying not to show it.

"He said," Dean paused, cleared his throat, and tried again. "He said that if we keep trying to get him out of Sam, he'll make sure that Sam won't survive it."

"What?" Mary asked. She felt her mouth go dry and words became scratchy, like sandpaper traveling over her tongue. And if it was this bad for her, she couldn't imagine what Dean felt. She would mourn the chance of getting to know her younger son. Dean would lose the brother he'd helped take care of since he was four. The brother he could talk about for hours when he refused to say more than a sentence or two about himself. "What does that mean?" she managed to get out.

Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. "Nothing good," he said. "And the thing is that I believe him. I just don't know what he has lined up to go through with it. He's a freaking archangel. How many tricks does he have up his sleeve that we don't even know about?"

"I know that scares you, and it scares me, too. But we need to ask if we can afford to _not_ take this risk," Mary said, each word chosen with delicate precision. She knew how hunts worked, and this was not much different from a regular hunt (other than involving her family and Satan). She had to weigh the risk and reward and figure out the worth.

"I don't _know_ ," Dean said. "And I think that scares me the most. I'm supposed to have all the answers, you know? I'm supposed to be looking out for Sam and I should know what's best for him, but when he needs me to have answers the most, I don't have them."

"No one can have all the answers, Dean," Mary said. "If I had all the answers, I could have kept both of you out of the hunting life. But I didn't. I didn't take a deal with a demon seriously, and you boys and John were the ones to suffer because of it."

"Mom—"

Mary cut him off. "You're going to say that I couldn't possibly have known what would happen—and that's true, but that's my point, Dean. Neither of us can know if we're making the right decision, but our only other option is to sit here and let Sam fight Lucifer on his own."

Dean nodded, seeming to accept her argument. At the very least, he relaxed a bit. Mary would never say it to Dean, but if the plan went wrong and Sam didn't survive, she was sure that their attempt would be what he wanted. It'd be better to be dead than to share a body with the devil, wouldn't it?

Despite Lucifer's warning, Mary knew beyond any doubt that they were doing the right thing by taking this risk, because no fate could be worse than the reality in which Sam was currently trapped.

* * *

Clearing a table and setting up an altar on it under a witch's command felt wrong to Mary. Altars were meant to be destroyed by hunters, not built. It was just another reminder of how much the world—supernatural and otherwise—changed in her absence.

Dean argued under his breath with Crowley before coming over and begrudgingly introducing him.

"You're the King of Hell?" Mary asked.

"That I am," Crowley said. "Pleasure's mine to meet the fabled Mary Winchester. The stories they tell about you in The Pit, well, I can't say I'm not glad Sam didn't live up to expectations."

Mary looked over Crowley with a critical eye, not giving in to his attempt to rile her. "You're not what I expected," she said.

"Well, this is just a vessel, of course," he said. "I hear you like to make deals with devils. Any chance I could get you to sell Dean like you did Sam?"

The burn of tears behind her eyes lasted only a second before her rage took over, but Dean beat her to taking action by pulling Crowley out of the room with a knife that looked ceremonial with all of the engravings on it and the one edge serrated, but the other kept smooth.

Mary was left in the room with Rowena and her own guilt festering behind diminishing anger. She brushed her fingertips over her throat when she looked at the witch-catcher (wasn't that what Dean called it?). It was yet another new piece of information to add to a collection quickly overflowing.

"It's about as uncomfortable as it looks," Rowena supplied. "The most uncomfortable part is not being able to remove it myself."

"You aren't what I expected either," Mary said. "Especially not being the King of Hell's mother."

"Yet you haven't raised a hand against either of us. What about those hunter instincts the rest of your kind like to speak of?"

"There are the instincts of a hunter, and then there are the instincts of a mother. Right now, I just need to trust in Dean. As much as I hate to admit it, he has more experience with the supernatural than I do."

"You really love him, don't you?" Rowena asked.

"Of course, I love him. Don't you love your son?"

Rowena laughed. "I hate him, actually."

"You can't mean that."

"I look at Fergus, and I'm right back to where I was as just a girl who was cast a poor lot in life. Before I turned to magic and broke away from a fate as a miserable housewife. In fact, if this witch-catcher wasn't on me, I'd be trying to kill him."

"Fergus?" She assumed that Crowley was his name, first or last. But 'Fergus' just didn't fit for the King of Hell in either slot, and she asked herself once again what sort of world she landed in. 'Crowley' wasn't a threatening name, but 'Fergus' was downright laughable.

"That's his name, deary. Gave it to him myself."

"Because you hate him?"

Rowena glanced up at her with a glint in her eye and a cheeky smile, but said nothing.

Mary set up the metallic bowl and helped organize an array of plants and objects that she didn't want to know the story behind (like the heart that was still beating or the crystals that crackled like they were wrapped in lightning). She lit the candles, mostly black but with some other colors thrown in as well. At some point, Dean re-entered the room with a subdued Crowley in tow. Mary felt a surge of pride that her son stuck up for her, but a little disappointed that he was put in a situation where he had to.

Dean held up his cell phone (those things were still so weird) and shook it with a grin plastered across his face. "Got bait on its way. No way Lucifer will pass it up. Probably doesn't think we could set up a decent trap that will affect him."

"It might not," Rowena said. "I don't have a bloody clue what will happen with this spell. Closest I've seen is an exorcism, but this isn't for demons, I can tell you that much."

"Really appreciate the confidence," Dean grumbled.

"I'm just being realistic. Besides, the outcome doesn't matter much to me. The only benefit I get is knowing what the spell really does."

"What are you using for bait against Lucifer?" Mary asked. What could he want that Dean could give him?

Dean's grin grew wider. "If he's hunting fallen angels, I've heard of one that he must be pretty upset with right about now. Cas said he'd find and bring him here."

"Why would any angel willingly come to _you_ with _Castiel_?" Crowley asked. "Pretty much every angel alive hates both of your guts."

Dean shrugged. "He either comes here and has a chance of living once Rowena's spell blasts Lucifer out of Sam, or he refuses and Lucifer hunts him down and kills him. I'd say option one is a little more appealing."

Crowley seemed content with that answer, but Mary couldn't read him easily and he stayed silent so she had no way of knowing with certainty.

"You think Cas managed to learn anything from Michael about killing Lucifer?" Crowley asked, looking at Dean.

"What about Michael?" Dean demanded.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You didn't know? Your feathered pet paid a visit to Michael in The Cage earlier. He wanted to learn anything Michael knew about getting rid of Lucifer. The thing is, you kill an angel while they're in their meat suit, you kill the meat suit, too."

"Then you better hurry up, Rowena," Dean said, turning his attention. "I don't want Cas to think he has to do something reckless because there are no other options."

Rowena adjusted her supplies over the black cloth. "It's going to take me a bit to do the spell," she said.

"Gives Cas time to bring the bait here and for us to dial up Lucifer," Dean said.

Rowena started her spell, and Mary watched. Witches and demons were meant to be killed and exorcised, respectively. How had things changed so much in her absence?

More importantly, why was there such a sour feeling growing deep in her stomach?

* * *

Sam's life revolved around learning from an early age. While he learned about things that to most other people only existed in nightmares, he had to learn about being a normal human, too. That meant knowing about the human mind. How people think. How to read them.

Dean taught him to read suspicion and guilt. He learned how to lie and spot lies.

But Jess supplied a lot of his knowledge, beyond what was necessary for being a hunter, in her pursuit of a Psychology degree (she wanted to work for Child Protection Services, and wouldn't that be Sam's luck to have a girlfriend wanting to work for people his family actively avoided growing up?). She shared a lot of material from her classes with him. Reciting off what they learned each day helped her remember, and who was Sam to deny her that help?

When Brady seemed intent on continuing down the path of his new lifestyle (the result of Brady no longer being _Brady_ ), Jess wanted to help Sam help him. So she came up with a plan of attack that she called 'Destroy and Rebuild'. It was simple enough in theory, but when people say someone can't be helped unless they want help, they mean it.

The idea was to guide Brady to a new, healthier hobby whenever he tried to chase after one of his new vices in the hope to replace the bad with the good. Brady wanted to drown himself in liquor? How about some soda, snacks, and whatever sports game is on TV instead?

But Brady wasn't even human at that point and couldn't care less about a healthy lifestyle, he just wanted to have his fun while he kept an eye on Sam for Azazel.

Only Sam isn't Brady and he's not possessed by a demon (just Satan himself). So he started with the straps that held him down. Destroy and rebuild. Destroy the straps that held him, rebuild his fighting will.

Lucifer could hold him down temporarily, but he could never stop Sam completely. He could send all of the hallucinations he wanted after Sam. Let Fake Dean whisper in his ear that he's still a monster that needs to be put down. Might as well _be_ Satan with how many times he's let him in. Let Fake Mom praise his actions and good intentions (the ones that paved his road to Hell). Fake Dad had a gun trained on him and a bullet with his name on it. Fake Little Sammy had hate in his eyes.

Destroy and rebuild.

It took a lot of willpower—especially with Fake Dean—but Sam managed to dispel the apparitions of his family that mocked him.

When he managed to get half of the straps off, enough that he could sit up, he heard the groan of the door's peephole as it opened.

"I can hear you moving, Sam," Lucifer said. "Like an animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage. But you know, you aren't much more than a caged animal. I don't think you ever have been more than that."

"This is my mind, Lucifer, not yours! You can tie me down, but you will never _keep_ me down. I'm not your caged animal."

Lucifer opened the door and stepped through. He looked like he was trying to be serious, like he didn't want the amusement that seeped through to show. It wasn't supposed to be there. "You don't get it, do you?" Lucifer asked. "This is your mind? I suppose it is, but you gave control of it to me the second you said 'yes'. And I have tried so hard to be nice to you. I gave you peace, but that wasn't enough. I gave you a timeout, and you still fought against it to try and escape. We could have worked things out, but you've made it clear that you don't want to."

Lucifer shut the door behind him and leaned against it. He spread his arms to each side and the room distorted behind him, becoming evenly spaced bars made of non-Earthly material wrapped in icy flames. Sam felt the chill across the room and it grew more intense as the rest of the panic room changed in a ripple effect.

"When are you going to learn, Sam, that you _are_ my caged animal?" Lucifer asked.

Sam wasn't sure if Lucifer was real or not anymore, and memories of his psychotic break after the wall in his head broke flooded back. Was this just another mind game? How long until he was pointing guns at Dean again because he couldn't tell if it was _Dean_?

Lucifer walked towards him, the ground turning to ice under each foot when he took a step, and Michael appeared beside him with his lips raised into a sneer.

Fire and ice. Frost burn and bubbling flesh.

An angel who torments for entertainment and his own pleasure. An angel who torments to release his own rage and pain.

It was Hell.

It was _The Cage_.

* * *

Dean didn't pay much attention to Rowena's spell, and he would never admit that the length of time required to cast it gave him a bit of relief. Something that much of a bitch to muddle through had to be one powerful spell, right? Strong enough to rip an archangel right out of his vessel?

And Dean hoped it fucking hurt.

Cas brought Bathin back to the bunker with him, and Dean appreciated the chance to thank Bathin for helping his brother, even if his gratitude was mostly brushed off. Bathin had to be the most at ease angel Dean ever met, despite his life being on the line.

Then it became a waiting game. Dean knew that he got through to Lucifer and it would only be a matter of time before he showed up at the bunker again. In the meantime, Dean and Mary radiated tense anxiety while their Hell companions were unnervingly calm about it all, borderlining bored.

Rowena had all but the finishing section of the spell complete, waiting to use it as soon as she could. Watching her cast it didn't seem like anything special to Dean. He mostly mourned that he had to give up one of his few photos of Sam, but Rowena explained it was necessary so that the spell would have a target.

In essence, Dean painted a giant supernatural bullseye on his brother's back because he didn't have any other options. Yet he still felt the beginnings of guilt take hold. No matter what was in control of Sam's body right now, Sam was still in there and he was fighting.

A lifetime passed before the bunker's door opened and Lucifer sauntered down the stairs like he had all the time in the world. He smiled at Dean and said, "I should thank you, Dean. Gifting wrapping a fallen angel so nicely for me."

Dean landed a lot of blows on Sam's head over the years (some deserved, others less-so), but he never wanted to more than in that moment. "I wouldn't thank me just yet," Dean said.

He glanced over to see Rowena working to complete the spell and wondered how long he had to distract Lucifer (although he suspected Lucifer knew and was letting it happen, which scared him).

"You think you have a trick up your sleeve, don't you?" Lucifer asked. "When I told you that Sam wouldn't survive if you persist, it wasn't so much a threat as a promise. I can hear him screaming right now, tucked away in his cage. It's nostalgic, really. I miss the days of The Cage and its nice routine torture. Everything was so simple in those days."

Lucifer stepped towards Bathin and slid his blade into his hand from his sleeve, flipping it once in his grip. "You know how many times he cried out for you during those one-hundred-eighty years?"

"Shut up," Dean hissed. "That was _your_ doing. You're the one who made him scream."

He knew he couldn't kill Lucifer, but damn if he didn't want to give it a shot anyway. He looked over at Rowena again. She met his eyes and gave him a small nod.

Lucifer shrugged and kept his attention on Bathin, and Cas who stood beside him. Both angels held their guard higher than ever, but Lucifer seemed at ease, if a little angry. "Then he should have stopped fighting," he said. "But you had to show your face like always and give him something to hope for. Sam could've been spared all of that pain if you hadn't interfered. If you had just let Michael and I settle our battle ourselves."

"And roast half the planet doing it?" Dean asked. He heard Rowena chant softly under her breath and mentally begged her to hurry up because Lucifer raised his blade.

And Bathin held his blade at the ready, but it wouldn't do anything to an archangel and everyone in the room knew it.

Then Dean caught sight of Cas' blade. It looked so similar to Bathin's, but there was something different about it. It looked just like—

It looked just like Lucifer's blade. An archangel's blade. One of the few things that could kill an archangel, but it would mean Sam's death as well.

Dean saw it all play out in slow motion, his own arm stretched towards the angels of its own volition. Mary stepped up alongside him, unsure of what to do. Lucifer raised his blade to strike Bathin. Bathin held his blade up to defend against Lucifer. Cas raised his blade to kill Lucifer.

Rowena's voice raised, then fell silent as a burst of light filled the room. Dean closed his eyes and pulled his mom towards him. While he couldn't see what was going on, he could at least shield her to the best of his abilities.

Even behind his eyelids, the intensity of the light was physically painful. But the second it started to die down, he forced himself to look at the angels. To see the outcome.

All he saw was Sam's body falling to the floor.


	10. Sitting Waiting Wishing

Sam's body fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Dean's felt ready to follow his example, if only because he wasn't entirely sure which way was up or why the room spun around Sam.

Instead, he remained upright long enough to crash to his knees at Sam's side on the hard tiled floor. His fingertips hovered over Sam's carotid artery, on the pulse point Dean no longer had trouble finding due to years of practice. His own heart beat unsteadily as he searched for confirmation that Sam's still beat at all.

Mary knelt beside him, but her hands stopped halfway to Sam and she drew them back. Dean didn't know the meaning behind her actions, but he had more important things to think of.

He was so focused on Sam, searching for any sign of life, that he didn't notice Cas kept his blade at the ready until it was already on its way down.

Instinct took over and Dean reached for the blade, every cell in his body burning with the knowledge that he needed that thing away from his brother (and a few wondering why Cas was doing this).

But his lack of attention cost him. He couldn't stop Cas before another burst of light flooded the room and forced him to shield his eyes yet again. The only difference was the high-pitched ringing that stabbed into his ears like knives. Even after the light faded, Dean still heard residual ringing (and hearing loss this late in the game would be a major bitch to deal with).

Cas said something Dean couldn't understand: Enochian.

His mother's gasp was what really pulled him away from his unexpected adrenaline rush.

Sam had his arms spread to the sides, an image of angel wings scorched into the floor and a silver blade sticking up from his chest.

For a moment, Dean saw ten-year-old Sam again. Sam who so desperately wanted to play in the snow. Sam, with whom Dean made snow angels because even if the plow came through and erased the indents in the snow, they would still know they had been there.

His memories faded and the feeling he grew to know too well for his liking surfaced. The feeling that left him empty and cold because Sam would never open his eyes again. After this many times, he started believing that maybe the universe really wanted Sam dead. Every time he came back, with or without Dean's intervention, it was only a matter of time until something else tried to claim him. Dean hated to admit it, but he was just a man and couldn't save Sam from everything.

He could, however, seek out vengeance.

He wrapped his hand around the archangel blade's hilt to remove it from Sam's heart, reminding himself that he had not been the one who put it there, but he was stopped by Cas' grip on his wrist. Struggle as he might, he couldn't break free.

"Cas, let go of me, you bastard," Dean growled.

"Dean, stop and listen for a moment."

"Why should I?" he demanded. "You just killed my brother. There are some things that I can't forgive, and this is one of them."

"I don't think Sam is dead," Cas said.

Dean wondered if laughing was appropriate, but what other reaction could he have? His mom looked at him like he had lost his mind, but could anyone blame him if he had?

"Sam's not dead?" he asked. "Sam has a sword _piercing his heart_ , and he's not dead? You've lied about a lot of things, but don't lie about this, Cas."

"I'm not lying, Dean. I truly don't believe that Sam is dead. Or permanently dead."

Cas knelt down and Bathin copied him.

Dean removed his grip from the archangel blade, unwillingly, but willing to put faith in a feathered friend once again. After all, no matter how many times Cas screwed them over (and how many times had they screwed him over?), he always did what he could to make it right in the end.

"That's not possible," Mary muttered. "My baby… Dean's right. No one can survive being stabbed in the heart."

"Sam and Dean have done the impossible before, and I think they may have done it again," Cas said.

"Let's say I believe you for a second," Dean said. "What makes you think that Sam could have survived this?"

"I can see him," Cas said.

"What?"

Dean looked around the room, but the only sign he saw of Sam was the image he would never erase from his mind. The image that he could add to his collection with the others from Cold Oak, Stull, and the church from after the third trial—when everything should have been okay, but it all collapsed along with Sam.

"You're a mortal, Dean," Cas said. "I see him outside of his physical form."

"He's a ghost?" Mary asked.

Dean didn't want his mother to be right, and parents didn't know everything, right? Ghosts were things they hunted, and Dean could never hunt Sam.

"No, he's not a ghost I don't think. He seems like he's in a sort of limbo. He can't return to his body, but he also cannot pass on. No reaper is coming for him. I think it's the effect of the spell."

"Which did what, exactly?" Dean asked.

"It forced Sam out of his own body, which left only Lucifer inside. That's why I had to kill him at that moment, before he recovered stronger than before without having to fight Sam on the inside. And in this way, Sam's soul was not destroyed by the archangel blade. Believe me when I say this was likely the best case scenario."

Dean looked at Bathin, who nodded his confirmation, then to Crowley and Rowena who both watched on with varying level of morbid interest.

"Cas and I, combined, have enough power to keep Sam's body preserved, and maybe even heal some of the damage, for awhile," Bathin said.

"And then what?" Dean demanded. "What happens when your 'awhile' is over?"

"If you haven't figured out a way to get Sam back together, then he will die at that point. I'm sorry, Dean. Mary."

"Where do we start?" Mary asked. "How do we help him?"

"We should begin by healing his physical body. Every other effort will have been meaningless if he dies upon re-inhabiting his body," Cas said.

"Last time, he was walking around like some kind of Replicant. Won't that happen again?" Dean asked. Soulless Sam was not in the highlight reel of his memories, but if it was a possibility again, Dean needed to be prepared to protect both himself and his mother.

Mary shot him her you'll-be-explaining-this-later look. He'd grown used to her expressions by now and could read her better than he could most people, with the exception of Sam.

Cas laid his hand on Sam's chest for a long moment before he said, "No, this is different. I believe some ancient cultures—those that existed before humans started recording history in ways that would be preserved—used a derivation of this spell. It would have been much weaker and short-lasting."

"Why the hell would anyone want to banish a human soul from its body?" Dean asked. "I wouldn't have asked Rowena to go through with it if I knew that's what would happen."

"If you mentioned to me at any point that you planned on using another spell from the Book of the Damned, I could have looked it over and told you what it was likely to do based on the fact that many weaker variations exist throughout ancient history," Cas said. Strange how even when his voice stayed mostly monotone, it could carry an edge to it.

"You didn't exactly tell me about your plan to find an _archangel blade_ that you could use to _stab my brother._ "

"That was no longer your brother, Dean. It was Lucifer, just like it was last time," Cas said.

Crowley laughed under his breath and muttered something about an old married couple while Bathin stepped in.

"We can't change what happened," Bathin said. "But Lucifer is dead now, and Sam still has a chance to live. We have work to do."

* * *

It all felt surreal. Detached, like a lucid dream. Years ago, Pamela helped him and Dean become spirits when the reapers of a town were being captured by Alistair. During the time that Sam was earning himself a once-thought one way ticket to Hell. Turned out most of those tickets were round trip.

This was different though. He felt a link to his physical body, like he was shackled to it. But at the same time, he felt blocked off. There was some sort of barrier that he couldn't cross keeping him from his body. That, and the illuminated series of symbols covering his visible (and likely not visible) sections of skin.

Given Dean's lack of attention to them, Sam knew that they couldn't be seen by human eyes.

Mary was a surprise. Her presence reinforced Sam's feeling that maybe it all was a lucid dream. When he learned that Amara resurrected someone for Dean, he never considered it would be her. He assumed John would be at the top of his list, but it made sense to him that maybe Mary was at the top instead.

Rowena wanted to stay and observe the long-term effects of the spell, but a very long and ugly argument ended with her and Crowley taking their leave.

Cas and Bathin set to work like a team. They tried. Cas refused to look at Sam, despite Sam knowing that he could at the very least sense him given what he told Dean about Sam not being dead even though his body gave off every symptom of death.

Bathin helped move him to the bed in his room, and Sam pretended that he was just astrally projecting while asleep. Because he didn't look dead. He didn't feel dead. No reapers were after him—that he encountered so far. Unless Billie was running extremely behind in her daily reaping, he didn't expect to see one.

That was how he ended up standing at the foot of his own bed, next to an anxious Dean and Mary, watching angels try to heal him.

"What's taking so long?" Dean asked. "Usually it's just a touch and we're healed, when you have your mojo."

"Dean, you have to remember that it was a very powerful, otherworldly blade that damaged Sam's body. Powerful enough that Sam's soul would have been evaporated like Lucifer had it been in his body. Besides his internal organs being scorched, they also seem to be shredded. Like a creature with claws tore them apart. I have no answer as to what may have caused such damage without an external sign. Clearly, Sam was not mauled by anything."

"Son of a bitch," Dean said. "It was Lucifer, wasn't it? When he promised that Sam wouldn't survive, this is his insurance, isn't it? I try to save him, just to have him bleed out internally without angel life-support?" His voice raised with each word until he was yelling.

He looked ready to trash the room—Sam's room—but Mary's hand on his shoulder and slight shake of her head at the very least restrained him. Sam knew from experience that nothing could calm Dean down when he reached this level of frustration and anger. It was best to either help him contain it long enough to find him something to beat, or get out of the way of the path of his inevitable destruction.

Sam wished he could have helped his mom out in dealing with Dean. He wished that he wasn't the cause of his family's current misery.

Maybe being forced to watch and unable to intervene was some sort of punishment forced upon him by the universe (or just Chuck, but Sam didn't think that Chuck would have a reason to be so vengeful towards him).

Dean took a few deep breaths. "What's the plan?" he asked.

"We heal Sam. It'll take a few days due to the extent of his injuries and the nature of their causes, but between Bathin and I we should be able to handle it. Then, the most we can do is wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Sam to live or die."

"You said you've seen other variations of this spell," Mary said. "Could you explain that a little more?"

"A few accounts of it have been recorded as myths or miracles," Bathin said. Cas concentrated on healing what he could of Sam's injuries, particularly the stab wound through his heart.

"I'm old enough to remember the times that human rulers would have their witches—though they were referred to as many different things at that time—cast the spell over them when they came of age to rule. If they were 'resurrected', they would be deemed the true ruler. That variation would only last a matter of hours and the entire event was a public spectacle with every citizen waiting with bated breath to find out whether or not their supposed ruler would wake up.

"In a similar fashion, this idea has been used by many story tellers. The story of Snow-White used the idea _._ In the original version, when the story was passed from generation to generation orally, the witch enchanted the apple with a spell she believed would kill Snow-White. What happened was that Snow-White's soul was banished and left her dead. Well, temporarily dead in a manner of speaking. The witch was very surprised when an alive Snow-White found her once the spell wore off and allowed her body and soul to merge again."

"Have there been cases where the spell was used, and the person affecting stayed dead?" Dean asked.

Sam saw that Dean really didn't want to know the answer to that question, probably already knew it.

"Yes."

Dean ran his hand down his face. "So Sam is basically just not dead _yet_."

"Technically, he is already dead," Cas said, taking a step back and facing Dean. "The question is whether or not he will remain in this state. It's entirely possible that the spell will fade and allow him to return to his body."

"But it's also possible that it won't."

"I'm afraid so," Cas said after a moment of hesitation.

Dean kicked the leg of Sam's bed muttering a string of curses and left the room at a brisk, rage-fueled pace.

After shared glances, the rest of the room's occupants followed after him. Bathin was the last to leave the room. He looked back and nodded directly at Sam—his soul, not body—then turned away.

Sam tried to follow, but he found that the tether keeping him attached to his body wouldn't let him go much farther than right outside the door to his room.

He paced across the floor, always stopping to check if anyone was in the hallway and coming back. Eventually he settled for sitting on the bed next to his body with his back against the headboard and legs stretched out in front of him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this degree of helplessness. At least when he was trapped in his mind by Lucifer, he could still fight. He still had something to fight. Now, he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing to help with any of this. From the earlier conversation, the angels made it sound like he just needed to wait it out and then not die.

Because not dying was definitely one of his specialties.

This entire situation was bullshit, he decided.

* * *

By the time Dean came back to his room and pulled a chair beside his bed to sit on, it felt like years had passed. For all Sam knew, they might've. Dean looked much older than his age with the shadows under his eyes and pure exhaustion written across his face.

Dean leaned forward in the chair, letting his forearms rest on his legs, and sighed. "You always have to find a way to make the worst out of a bad situation, don't you, Sam?"

"I've told you before that our family is cursed, Dean," Sam said. Dean couldn't hear him, but he needed to participate in this conversation as much as Dean needed to keep vigil over his—for all purposes—dead body. This was coping: Winchester edition.

"Cas said that you're aware of what's going on around you, but I almost think he might just want me distracted." Dean laughed a bit. "He can't look me in the eyes. He thinks this is all his fault and that I'm going to hunt him down, probably. And I want this to be his fault. God, do I wish I could pin all of the blame on him. It'd make it all a hell of a lot easier. But the truth is, Cas did the right thing. Lucifer needed to die, and Cas killed him.

"But seeing that blade in your heart, I just lost it. It never occurred to me that you could survive that, why would it? The thing is that we're out of second chances now, Sam. If you don't wake up from this, that's the end. The _real_ end. We both know that Billie can't wait to toss us into The Empty with her own hands. There's no coming back from that."

"I don't blame Cas either," Sam said. "He did what he needed to. You might not agree, but this is probably the best case scenario we could have gotten."

The way Dean paused made Sam feel like he was being heard. Maybe to some extent, Dean imagined a response. Like they had a strong enough bond that he could at least tell Sam was present and Dean wanted to give enough time for him to speak on ears that wanted to hear, but were ultimately deaf to his words.

"I don't know where along the line everything got so screwed up. Some days I find myself thinking that I should have never bothered you at Stanford. You said it yourself, that I didn't need you to look for Dad. I just didn't want to be alone, and I pulled you away from everything you worked so hard for."

"Yellow Eyes would have come with or without you showing up, Dean. No matter what you tried, I would've ended up thrown back into the hunt. It was all part of his plan. Keep me strong and sharp and all that."

Dean shook his head. "But Yellow Eyes wanted you hunting, and I'm not sure I could have done anything to stop that. No matter how much I wish otherwise."

Dean paused for a long time. "I'm not sure how aware you are of your surroundings, Cas didn't say, but Mom's here," Dean said. "In the flesh. Amara brought her back to life, and I know she wants to meet you. I know that you would want to meet her, too. Hell, you probably spent your entire life wanting to meet her. The few memories Dad and I shared weren't much. They could never sate your curiosity about this woman who made Dad start a hunting obsession to avenge her death."

Dean cleared his throat. "I, uh, I didn't tell her about Adam. She didn't need that added to the mountain of things she has to deal with, so if you can hear me, I'd appreciate if you kept quiet about that."

When he first met Adam, Sam did wonder how the revelation would make his mom feel. Betrayed? Angry? Maybe she'd be understanding. After all, she died years ago by that point and Dad was still just a man.

Sam went through all of those emotions upon meeting the ghoul masquerading as Adam. Because the memories were still Adam's memories, and why could he have normal when Sam couldn't? His mom probably sent him off to college with pride, maybe John did, too, if Adam ever mentioned it to him.

But for Sam, college meant turning into an exile from his own family.

Then, the understanding kicked in. Adam was settled and still had another parent to take care of him. He likely never would have had to face the supernatural, but Winchester blood running through his veins landed him on the supernatural radar.

Only Adam was pulled from Heaven and into the apocalypse and now spent his days in Hell simply because John Winchester was his father.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "I always felt a little weird talking to you or Dad when either of you weren't conscious. It feels a little one-sided, you know? But Cas said… I mean, if you can really hear me right now…"

He took a deep breath and let it out as a drawn out sigh. "God, I'm so sorry, Sammy. I took too long to find you. I'm sorry you were taken in the first place. I should've been there. I should've…"

Sam wanted to know what else Dean thought he should've done, but he left the sentence to trail off indefinitely, and Sam suspected that it would never be quite finished.

"It wasn't your fault, Dean," Sam said. "You kinda saved the world. I couldn't even save myself."

His words didn't matter though, because Dean got up and left the room then.

And Sam couldn't follow.

* * *

Mary took up residence in the chair beside his bed some time after Dean left. A few times, she shifted and leaned forward like she was going to reach out to him, but she always stopped herself.

"I'm not gonna break, Mom," Sam said. The word felt foreign on his tongue.

She looked just as exhausted as Dean. Neither of them were sleeping properly, and if Sam had to guess, they weren't eating properly either.

"Hey, Sammy," she finally whispered. "Hope you don't mind the nickname. In my head, you're still supposed to be six months old."

She smiled a bit, strained but genuine, and Sam smiled back.

"My opinion of the nickname never stopped Dean or Dad from using it," Sam said.

Her smile faded too quickly and she blew the strands of hair falling into her face away. "Dean's told me a lot about you," she said. "Sammy, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Mom. I've never blamed you for anything."

"I should have known better than to make a deal with a demon, but I just watched everyone I loved die and I needed John with me. I needed him to help me through it," she said. "I didn't know that the demon wanted you. I didn't know what he would do."

"If you never made that deal, then I wouldn't be alive. Dean either. In a way, I should be thanking you. It hasn't been easy, and a lot of bad stuff has happened, but you know at the end of the day, it never really seemed all that bad."

He wished that his words could get through to Mary, to comfort her and lift some of the burden she felt. Maybe some days waking up in the morning seemed like a distant dream, but they made it through. They'd both been to Hell and back. They'd suffered. But they always came back and found their way into the fight against everything supernatural again and again.

"Dean seemed sure that you wouldn't blame me for anything, but how could you not?" she asked. "Please make it through this, Sammy. Give me a chance to make up for everything."

She buried her face in her hands, but the lack of trembling led Sam to believe she wasn't crying. It was strange that this woman was his mother, but at the same time a stranger. He couldn't read her.

This state left an emptiness in him, and listening to Dean and Mary only magnified it.

The Book of the Damned left him truly feeling like he was among the damned. It trapped him in a horrible prison where his body was dead, but his soul was alive and refused to leave his body. He was a ghost and not a ghost at the same time. Alive and dead at the same time. It wasn't natural.

This mess couldn't be over soon enough.

After Mary left, Dean took up his post in the bedside chair once again. "Finally convinced Mom to get some sleep," he said in lieu of greeting (though how much of a greeting was it when the thing in front of him was, in all sense of the word, a corpse?).

"If you can hear me, you're probably internally bitching about how I need some sleep, too."

He wasn't entirely wrong.

"But I'll have you know," Dean continued, "that I _did_ get a couple of hours before. When Mom came in here to sit with you. She didn't tell me what she talked about, but she looked pretty upset. You know it's not nice to make a woman cry, Sammy."

His joke fell flat, a poor attempt to lighten a mood too dark for either of them.

"That's why I need you to come back, Sam. You know I'm no good at dealing with crying women."

The words were as light as Dean could make them, but Sam felt the weight underneath. The meaning. Dean never had to say it, he knew how much he meant to his older brother. Dean sold his soul and willingly went to Hell for him, Sam was pretty sure he understood how much he meant to Dean.

Because Dean meant just as much to him.

"When Mom went into labor with you, I really just wanted a Happy Meal," Dean said. "I was four years old and hungry, but instead I ended up with you shoved into my arms so that Dad could take a picture of a new set of siblings."

The thought of Dean wanting a Happy Meal seemed completely at odds with Dean's personality. Sam assumed that even at that age, he'd already be opting for the biggest burger on the menu and trying to set himself up for the youngest recorded heart attack brought on by cholesterol in history.

"I guess that means you owe me a Happy Meal, Sam," Dean said. He flashed a lop-sided grin for only a moment. "Better wake up so I can collect on that."

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean seemed to think that there was some sort of food debt needing to be paid, but Sam could list off all the times Dean stole food from his meal. No way all of that combined didn't add up to more than a Happy Meal worth of food. Not when it happened over the span of so many years.

The one thing that Dad appreciated about Sam's teen years more than Dean's teen years was that Sam didn't need to eat enough to feed a football team to stave off hunger. He was always fine with eating enough for one person, not several.

Dean ran his hand down his face periodically, trying to physically drive away the weariness desperately wanting to set in.

"Just go to sleep, Dean," Sam said. "It's not like I'll be going anywhere any time soon."

* * *

The next few weeks passed slower than Sam thought possible (were more like several eternities than a few weeks), but the only form of entertainment he was getting was from someone sitting in his room and talking to his unresponsive body. Cas showed up more often than Bathin to heal him, but eventually neither of them could do anything more to help.

Sam watched as Dean's anxiety grew higher by the minutes. He always had to be in motion, pacing in Sam's room. Pacing outside of Sam's room. Hell, maybe he never stopped pacing.

Mary remained hesitant when she visited, but Sam never blamed her for it. She drowned herself in guilt for things that she never meant to set in motion, and Sam could only sit and watch her. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, he understood that she only had so much to say to the son she last saw when he was six months old. They were practically strangers.

"I try to get Dean to eat and sleep properly," she said one day. "But he doesn't care about keeping himself healthy, he hasn't since the second he found out you were missing. I know I don't have the right to ask you to come back for me. I've caused you a lot of pain. But if you could come back for Dean…"

"You have to stop with all of this guilt, Mom," Sam said. "I don't blame you. For any of it."

He was one to talk about guilt.

"Dean is still looking for ways to help you. He mentioned something called 'African Dream Root'," she said. "His angel friend said that it wouldn't work. You aren't dreaming, because that would require being…"

"Alive?" Sam finished for her. "I think the strange symbols that you can't see on me are the locks keeping me out. Some have faded, but they're fading so slowly that I'm not sure Cas can preserve my body like this that long."

Mary sighed and rubbed at her eyes. "I've always heard that children drive their parents crazy, but you two…" She laughed a bit, but sobered quickly. "We'll figure something out, okay, Sammy?"

For the first time, she didn't hesitate when she reached out to squeeze his hand before she left the room.

"I hope you do, Mom. I really hope you do."

Sam always knew that life wasn't fair. That it was perhaps especially unfair to him and his family. But to die right before getting the chance to meet his mother—alive and well—wasn't that a bit extreme?

* * *

That Dean spent entire nights slumped in the chair at his bedside wasn't a surprise. Sam couldn't count how many times they went through the routine, but Dean seemed determined that he always be next to unconscious Sam. Just in case.

Sam snorted. Just in case they stumbled into a miracle that managed to wake him up while he still had a body to inhabit. The pace at which the symbols faded was really starting to worry him. The more Dean and Mary talked to him—even if they couldn't hear his responses—the more he knew that he needed to be there for them. He needed to clear them of the guilt threatening to bury them, the guilt of _his_ mistakes, not theirs.

Dean was right. He did make the worst of a bad situation, and the fact that Dean sounded like he was so close to finding Sam made it that much worse. If only he could have resisted Lucifer's offer for a little longer…

His bedroom was becoming the room of unfinished sentences. Half-thoughts left to linger in the stifling air (not that Sam could currently tell whether or not the air was stifling).

Sam heard footsteps and expected to see his mom at the door of his room (sometimes she brought a blanket for Dean when she knew it would be useless to try waking him and forcing him to sleep in his bed). But it wasn't his mom, and Sam's surprise turned to dread when his new visitor looked directly at him and spoke.

"Sam, I think it's time we talked."

* * *


	11. A Moment's Peace

" _Chuck?"_ Sam asked.

Chuck smiled a bit. Still looking every bit the nervous, semi-unsuccessful author-turned-prophet He was when Sam first met Him. "Yeah, it's me."

Sam glanced over at Dean, who showed no awareness that another presence entered the room. He remained steadfastly asleep instead (no grabbing silver knives from under pillows tonight, not that it would help against _God_ ).

"He can't see or hear me," Chuck said, answering the unasked question. "Right now, I'm on the same plane of existence you are."

"No offense, Chuck, but I'd really like you to get to the point. Starting off with 'we need to talk' is not exactly reassuring. In any way."

Death-with-a-capital-D was present the last time Sam was meant to die (at Dean's hand, no less), so it wouldn't surprise him all that much if Chuck felt it was His turn to take Sam to the next life (no matter how much Billie wanted the job she was denied at the hospital when Sam figured out a cure for himself). God didn't need to be a reaper to reap, He could do whatever He wanted, couldn't He? He created the entire universe after all, reapers included.

Chuck laughed at that. "Maybe not, but it's true. We do need to talk, Sam."

He stepped closer to the bed and looked at the symbols that still covered too much of Sam's body for Sam's liking. All the little supernatural locks keeping him like this.

"They're fading, but too slowly. By the time they're gone, my body won't be able to be revived—regardless of if my soul can enter or not," Sam said.

"I know."

Because of course He did.

"What do we need to talk about? Aren't you supposed to be doing the whole family reunion thing?"

"I have an eternity to reunite with Amara, thanks to you and your brother," Chuck said. "Amara gave Dean her appreciation, and I think you could use a gift from me right about now."

"So, you aren't here to reap me?" Sam asked. He never imagined asking God face-to-face whether or not He was about to kill him. Permanently. No take-backs this time. No take-backs ever again.

"Is that what you want, Sam?" Chuck asked. His tone wasn't as light-hearted as it had been when He first came to the bunker, back when He really didn't give a damn about what Amara did because He felt she deserved to do what she wanted after He locked her away for so long. It was even and serious. If Sam said he wanted to be reaped, he held no doubts that Chuck would oblige him in that moment.

"I can't leave Dean."

"He'd live."

God playing Devil's Advocate? Sam would have a good laugh at that later. When he could laugh. When he had a beating heart and lungs and a diaphragm that would allow him to laugh.

And maybe Dean would laugh, too.

"No, he wouldn't. Not really." And how many people over the years have called them unhealthily codependent on each other?

Chuck cracked a smile, because He had to know the truth in Sam's words. Hell, the man (could He be called that?) wrote books detailing their lives. He knew the story before it began, before Sam and Dean decided to rewrite some of it on their own terms. "Then I'll go ahead and guess that you feel like it's time you were back in your body."

"I felt like it was time for that _weeks_ ago. Time moves slowly when you can't do anything other than sit beside yourself and wait for someone to just talk to you, even if you can't respond," Sam said. "Witchcraft won't be making your list of 'top ten greatest creations' any time soon."

"It kinda saved you."

Sam had to try really hard to avoid rolling his eyes. "This isn't exactly what I'd call being saved."

Chuck stepped around Dean and stood right next to the bed. He held His hand above Sam and as He moved it parallel to his body, the symbols faded until only one was left. He left His hand hover over the final symbol and looked at Sam. "This is what you want?"

" _Yes._ God, yes."

Amusement.

"It's a phrase," Sam defended.

But the amusement didn't fade for another moment longer. "Cas and Bathin did well healing you. Well, as well as they could."

"Removing the locks will fix that, won't it?"

"No, and I'm not about to fix it either."

"Why not?" Sam mostly succeeded in keeping anger out of his tone, but he couldn't help feeling like he'd drawn the short straw in life yet again.

"Mostly as a lesson," Chuck said. "There isn't enough damage remaining to kill you, but you aren't going to have a fun couple of weeks. You'll heal, you just need to rebuild yourself like I have to rebuild Lucifer now."

"You're planning on rebuilding Lucifer?" Sam asked. "Why would you do that?"

Chuck shook his head. "He was my most beloved, Sam. You've always reminded me so much of him, and he deserved a better father than me. Because of you, your family, and friends, he's dead. I'll be in pain while I recreate him—archangels are very complex—and you'll be in pain while you recover. I'm not trying to be wrathful, Sam. I'm not. But you need to learn to stop turning to the Book of the Damned when something goes wrong. You were right about the symbols. Without my intervention, you would not have any chance of survival. These are facts, Sam."

"I didn't choose to use it."

"I know, but the consequence is just as much a punishment to Dean as it is you. On the other hand, I need to know that the world is being looked after while I'm spending some quality time with my family. We all had lessons to learn here, Sam."

"What was your lesson?"

Chuck grinned at Sam like He was expecting the question. Quite possibly , He was. "When you try to lock your problems away, they only come back worse. I won't make the same mistakes this time, and I hope you won't either. Lucifer needed my love, but I put the responsibility of his care on Michael's shoulders and locked him away when he didn't respect my wishes. But how could I have expected him to when I was never much of a father? Instead of trying to understand his views, I forced Michael to cast him into a cage. Amara needed to know that I wasn't replacing her when I created everything. She didn't understand that love grows. That I didn't love her any less because I loved something else as well. So I locked her away, too. I think she understands now, though. I think Dean helped her a lot, and helped me as well. So I'm repaying him in a way by helping you."

"Aren't you afraid everything will repeat itself?" Sam asked. _He_ was, and he silently hoped that Lucifer's rebirth wouldn't be finished until long, long after his own death because being his meat suit was something he never wanted to do again.

Chuck paused and seemed to really think over Sam's question, which He didn't expect this time. Wasn't God supposed to have all the answers?

"Maybe everything _will_ repeat itself. Some things might be inevitable, but I'm willing to take the risk," Chuck said. "Because the reward is worth that. If you and Dean prove anything, it's how important family is. Anyway, ready to return to the living?"

"Any heads up about what you mean about the next weeks not being fun for me?" Sam asked. If he was going to be miserable, he'd like to know what to expect at the very least.

"An archangel blade damages the vessel's body in much the same way as the Trials did, only both usually result in death. But you always were one to beat the odds," Chuck said. "So burning, probably. Mostly."

"Burning?"

"Internally, yes. Uh, overall tired and sore," Chuck added. "Don't be surprised if you can't stay awake very long for the first few days, or that you'll tire easier until you're healed and back in shape. Not everyday that you come back from the dead. Unless you're a Winchester, I guess, but, uh. Yeah."

"So basically it's the same as recovering from every other horrific event that's happened."

"Yeah, pretty much," Chuck admitted. "Just with the whole internal burning thing. Coughing up blood for the first week is probably normal."

"Probably?"

Chuck shrugged. "No one's actually survived this spell before, but I'm making sure that you won't die."

"Sometimes I liked you more when you were just a prophet trying to make a living off of the story of our lives," Sam said. "Before all the crazy."

"Yeah, me too. Things were a lot simpler then," He said.

Sam laughed under his breath and shook his head. "Never realized there could be worse things than Yellow Eyes and Lilith."

"Man, you guys haven't even seen the real worst of the worst that's out there—" Chuck must've seen something in Sam's expression, because He stopped Himself mid-sentence and cleared His throat. "Anyway, let's fix you up here, Sam. Get you back to the living."

"Chuck, what do you mean we haven't seen the worst of the worst?" Sam asked.

But the final symbol faded and Sam felt himself being pulled back to his body and the darkness enveloping it before Chuck answered. Though He probably never would have answered given the way He shifted nervously.

Despite the darkness fully encompassing him, Sam felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

He felt his deep fried organs burn as they struggled to sustain life once again.

He felt every painful heartbeat, a steady reminder that they once again made it through the impossible.

Then he felt wonderful, real sleep.

* * *

Dean felt the change in the room before he was even fully awake. An extra sound that wasn't there before. As ground into him over decades, his mind immediately set into there's-a-threat mode. A mode that intensified when the extra knowledge that Sam couldn't watch out for himself right now was added.

He went through the motions of grabbing one of the guns hidden in Sam's room and readying himself to face a new threat before he snapped into full wakefulness. The shadows in the room revealed nothing, but he kept his guard up.

He stalked to the door and pushed it open, looking down the hall one way, then the other. But nothing out of the usual presented itself. Still, what was that sound? It was achingly familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

The only thing he could place about it was that its source came from _inside_ his brother's room.

In fact, the closer he moved towards Sam, the louder it became.

_Sam's making noise._ _Why is Sam making noise?_

Everything clicked in his mind. Sam had to be alive to make noise. Somehow in the middle of the night, Sam's soul managed to slip back into his body. Those noises were the sounds of his brother _breathing_. Wonderful breaths, but ragged and… wet?

Dean leaned over Sam, one hand checking his pulse and finding it steady enough. But damn if the sounds of his breathing weren't worrying, and Dean attempted to haul the dead weight of Sam into a sitting position. He heard yells for Cas, and numbly realized that the voice yelling belonged to him, but he wasn't running on logic right now.

This was all instinct.

Sam opened unfocused eyes, and Dean tried to place himself in his line of vision. "Sammy, hey. Take it easy. Your breathing isn't sounding too great, but Cas is coming. He'll help you, okay?"

From the glazed look Sam gave him, Dean knew that his words were comforting himself more than his little brother. Did Sam know where he was? Did he even know what happened, or had Lucifer pulled off a final move against them and cleaned out Sam's memories?

The fear from that thought would have been enough to freeze him, if Sam hadn't started coughing—hacking coughs, too—and broken him out of his reverie.

"Hey, easy. Easy," Dean said.

Sam hunched over until his coughing fit passed, then (and Dean thought that this was perhaps _worse_ than the coughing) his unseeing eyes rolled back. If Sam hadn't already been safely on his mattress with pillows waiting to break his fall, Dean's not sure he could've prevented Sam from hitting the ground in time with how quickly everything around him was happening and how it felt like he was running on a time delay.

Sam's breathing sounded better after his coughing fit, so Dean saw it as a good opportunity to turn on the lamp in the room for a bit of light to get a decent look at Sam and what he had to work with here. While he knew that it was the right thing to do, he almost regretted it.

Because that was blood dripping out of Sam's mouth, and why is Sam coughing up blood? Cas said he healed Sam.

Speaking of, his fine feathered friend decided on that moment to enter the room. He skipped the 'Hello, Dean' this time and looked at Sam with more disbelief than Dean ever imagined could show on his face.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Dean said.

"This is impossible."

Dean watched Cas approach Sam, ready to intervene no matter how much he trusted Cas. After all, he still couldn't shake the imagine of Cas driving a pretty silver blade into Sam's chest.

Cas looked over Sam, then to Dean. "What happened, Dean? How did he come back?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and focused on Sam instead of Cas. "I, uh, was asleep," he said, wishing he had been awake to have the answers himself, if there were any out there. "Then something woke me up. Took me a minute to figure out it was Sam's breathing, but his breathing didn't sound right. So, I helped him sit up and that's when he coughed up blood."

Dean took a deep breath and met Cas' eyes. "Why's he coughin' up blood, Cas? You said you healed him," Dean said. His words weren't angry or accusatory. Just exhausted. Worried, and maybe a little sad. Couldn't they get a break for once?

"I told you that I healed him to the best of my abilities, Dean," Cas said. "His internal injuries were… Dean, they were like when he was doing the Trials. I was actually surprised that I was able to heal them to the extent I did, and Bathin's assistance helped, but neither of us knew what more we could do."

"Are they still…?" Dean didn't finish his sentence. He couldn't. Some part of him didn't want to know whether or not Sam's organs were torched again like the doctors told him in that damned hospital. The hospital where Sam almost willingly gave up everything until Dean tricked him into being possessed by an angel.

And didn't he feel like Big Brother of the Year material right about now?

Cas laid his hand on Sam's forehead, who thankfully remained unaware of everything going on around him. "I'm afraid so," Cas said. "However, the damage isn't as fatal this time. Instead, they seem to be starting to heal on their own. It will just take time."

Dean laughed a bit, but cleared his throat when it sounded a little more choked than he liked. "Yeah, time. I can do that. Sam can have all the time he needs."

He left out the obvious 'as long as he's alive to take all of that time'.

"You're sure you didn't see anything?" Cas asked. "You went to sleep, then woke up and he was breathing?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Why? Is something wrong?"

Cas shook his head. "No. I don't think so, but it's confusing."

"Well, Sam might have some answers when he wakes up."

_And please let him wake up with all of his memories intact. Not sure how many more stunts of Lucifer's I can handle in this lifetime._

"Maybe," Cas agreed.

"You mind keeping an eye on Sam for a few minutes? I think my mom would like to know that her son is alive and going to stay that way."

Because nothing else was ever acceptable.

"I do not mind."

And Dean practically ran out of the room and down the hall with a grin on his face, glad to give Mary some good news for once.

_It's times like these that make me thankful you're a stubborn bastard, Sammy._

* * *

In whatever limbo he spent the last few weeks in, at least he didn't feel anything. Now, however, he felt everything. The smallest of movements were enough to send the liquid fire that replaced his blood at some point in his soul's absence rushing through him in waves of pain. Even breathing felt too difficult at times, with each huff of air burning his lungs (not in the good way like he just finished a long morning jog).

He doesn't know if anyone is in the room with him, it's too quiet to tell, but his eyelids feel too heavy to open and check. If he can't slip back into sleep, he'd at least like to stay at this halfway point between sleeping and waking. The pain remained dulled like this, and he wouldn't try to move or do anything to make it flare.

Voices in the hall grew closer to him, but were still muffled by his door. Until his door opened.

"I'm curious, too, Cas." Ah, there was Dean. "But he hasn't exactly been awake _and_ coherent enough to talk about what happened. Or anything else, for that matter. He's okay. We're all okay. Can't we leave well enough alone for now? Let him rest."

Cas started to reply, but Sam didn't quite hear all of it as he slipped back into sleep.

* * *

The next time he felt awareness begging him to return, the pain wasn't quite as bad. It was still there, blanketing him along with the weariness of recovering from a long illness or severe injury, but it was more manageable. He actually felt like he could move and his body wasn't attempting to spontaneously combust because of it.

And that incessant tapping was probably Dean being the big brother and holding his familiar bedside vigil, while at the same time struggling with not being in motion for so long. Dean needed the thrill of the hunt, and all of this waiting couldn't be easy on him. Sam knew.

The hard part would be trying to convince Dean to find a simple, nearby hunt when Sam could handle being awake for more than a handful of minutes just to clear out the cabin fever he had to be experiencing by now.

"Sam?" Dean asked. The tapping stopped. "Hey, you awake?"

Sam opened his eyes and found Dean hovering over him, filled with anxious excitement and worry.

"Are you in pain?" he asked. He skipped right past 'are you okay', but Sam figured they both knew he was far from okay right now. At least physically.

Sam tried to grin, but wasn't sure if the command made it properly from his brain to his facial muscles. "I understand what Jimmy meant now. About angel possession feeling like you're strapped to a meteor," Sam mumbled. "More like being strapped to the sun, though."

"Didn't stop you from agreeing to possession twice," Dean said, returning the grin that must have shown somehow.

"Three times."

And the grin faded. Dean obviously still felt guilty about that, and sure Sam spent a long time angry about it. But he would have done the exact same thing in Dean's place.

"Forgave you a long time ago."

"I know, Sam."

But Dean hadn't forgiven himself. He probably never would.

Maybe one day, but as much as Sam wanted to absolve his brother of his guilt, sleep pulled him back with other plans.

* * *

This time, opening his eyes wasn't such a chore and wakefulness didn't seem so daunting. He even dared to sit up in bed, which proved to be a struggle, but manageable.

He wasn't aware of making any sounds during his fight with gravity, but he must have with the way Dean rushed into his room.

But when he saw that Sam was awake and better than he had been in awhile, he just shook his head and said, "Of course you wait until I leave for coffee to wake up."

"Just this time. You were here last time."

Dean looked at him with raised eyebrows. "You remember that?"

Sam kept glancing at the coffee mug cradled in Dean's hands, desperate for some caffeine to keep him awake because all of this sleeping frustrated him. Especially when all of the sleep never felt like it was enough. "I haven't been as out of it as you think," he said.

"What else do you remember?"

"From when?"

Dean shrugged. "The Men of Letters. Your possession. Your time… under the spell."

Because Dean wouldn't say 'dead' when referring to Sam unless he had no other choice.

"The first two, not much," Sam said. What he did remember wouldn't be very useful. Bits of Toni's attempts to draw information from him and Lucifer's mind games. "The last one, well, everything."

Dean leaned forward and opened his mouth, but Sam stopped whatever words he was about to spew with a shake of his head. "Later, okay? We can talk about it later," Sam said.

He must have looked as exhausted and miserable as he felt for Dean to put his curiosity aside and accept Sam's promise of 'later' without a fight.

Instead, Dean made himself comfortable in the chair again and flipped on Sam's TV. "Get some rest, Sammy," he said. "You sure as hell need it."

Sam was pretty sure he managed to roll his eyes at Dean before they slipped closed. As nice as sleep sounded, he wished he could escape it for hours instead of minutes.

"I'm only letting you get away with being a little bitch because you managed to deep fry your organs. Again," Dean said.

It was the last thing he heard before unconsciousness, and that was oddly comforting. The fact that Dean was alive and well and able to sit at his bedside to give him shit about being a little girl until he recovered.

* * *

While he expected not to be alone when he woke up again (unless he managed to time it just right and Dean was out on another coffee break), he didn't expect that it would be his mother sitting beside him. Especially not with how hesitant she was around him that entire time he was trapped in non-ghost limbo (was there even a name for the state he experienced?).

She twisted her fingers around each other and flashed a small smile at Sam when she noticed his eyes open. "Hey, Sammy," she said softly. More of a whisper. "Took awhile, but I got Dean to go get some sleep in a bed for once."

"Hey, Mom." He never knew how good it would feel to finally be able to speak to his flesh-and-blood mother.

She looked away, eyes flitting anywhere in the room except towards Sam before settling on her hands. "I've got a lot to apologize for," she said.

Sam shook his head, pleased to find that moving was much easier now. "No, you've got nothing to apologize for."

"But the demon… I should've known better than to make a deal with him. I was raised a hunter. I should have _known_." Her hands are folded now in a grip so tight that her knuckles lose their color, but her eyes are bright and oversaturated with color in her grief and guilt.

Sam found the strength to move his hand on top of hers, successfully pulling her attention to himself. "You were out of your mind with grief," he said. "If anyone knows what that can do to someone, it would be me and Dean."

She gripped his hand between both of hers, like he would slip away should she let go. "There's still so much I wish I could take back or change, but I'm going to make it up to you, Sammy. I'm going to make up for all of those lost years."

Sam let his head roll back and stared at the ceiling. While he didn't hurt as much, he still hurt and activities more strenuous than this didn't seem like an option in the near future. "Looking forward to it."

The silence that fell between them wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, when he glanced at her, Mary looked more comfortable now than any of the times she sat with his unresponsive body. If she was anything like Dean, her guilt wasn't dissipated by Sam's assurances that he didn't blame her. It would be something she held onto deep in her soul and in the same database of perceived failures that Dean carried with him.

"I can't believe I used to tell Dean angels were watching over him when I tucked him in at night," Mary said. "If I knew what they were like, I never would have."

Sam cracked a smile at that along with a small laugh because out of all the comments she could've broken the silence with, she chose that one. "You weren't wrong. They were watching."

"Not for anything good from what he's told me."

"You didn't know. You wanted to believe that there was something good in a world where you feel like you could drown in all of the darkness."

Mary looked at him for a long moment. "You worded it perfectly, Sammy."

Sam half-grinned. "It was the same for me, you know? Right after I found out about… well, I just thought that if there was a higher power—a good power—that I could still be saved."

He remembered having a similar conversation with Dean nearly a decade ago, after a case with a priest's spirit who firmly believed himself to be an angel. This, however, felt more significant. Mary understood what he meant. She shared that same faith once upon a time. Dean tried (like always) to understand, but he saw too much evil to hope for a little light.

"Sounds like you saved yourself in the end."

He wanted to tell her that wasn't right. It was Dean who saved him in the end, but he didn't have the energy and they had the time now where he could keep it to himself and bring it up later. For once, everyone was mostly intact and not running on a time limit too close for comfort.

* * *

"Ready to explain what happened with that spell?" Dean asked.

Sam could finally sit up _and_ stay conscious for over an hour at a time. His internal organs didn't feel like he was being burned alive every time he moved. They dulled to a sensation more like a very strong sunburn. When he coughed, blood no longer came up. Overall, his physical health had improved a lot since he first woke up, and Dean seemed more relaxed than he had in a long time.

"You mean why Cas is always looking at me like a puzzle that solved itself?" Sam asked. Honestly, the way Cas had been inspecting him (because no other word quite fit) quickly became unnerving.

"Or why he was so surprised when you started breathing again, but you can start wherever you like in the story as long as I get all of the answers."

'I thought this place would reek of whiskey by the time I woke up," Sam said.

Dean laughed, propped his feet on the bed next to Sam, and shook his head. "Mom dumped all of the alcohol. She thinks I have a problem. Now quit stalling, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I wasn't stalling," he said. "You want answers? It was Chuck."

"Chuck? How'd you manage that one?"

"He appreciated that we helped Him realize the importance of family, but still wanted us punished for killing Lucifer and using the Book of the Damned again," Sam said. "Something along the lines of I have to hurt while being put back together because He'll be hurting while He puts Lucifer back together."

"He's putting Lucifer back together?" Dean asked. Anger and disbelief, a Dean Winchester specialty.

Sam shrugged. "Sounded more like Lucifer being reborn. Chuck said He'd be the Father Lucifer needed Him to be the first time around. He knows the risk, but He wants to at least try."

"He's lucky that if He dies, the world goes with Him," Dean threatened. "Why's He punishing _you_ anyway? I'm the one who used the Book of the Damned. Cas is the one who let Lucifer out the second time."

"And this still hurts you, doesn't it?" Sam asked. "It hurt you to sit next to me while I was basically a corpse, not knowing whether or not I'd wake up. I saw you Dean. I sat right next to my body, and you couldn't see me, but I could see you."

"I knew you would wake up."

Sam shook his head. "I wasn't supposed to. There were these—I don't know—symbols that acted like supernatural locks keeping me out of my body. They were fading, but so slowly that Cas' power would have been completely drained healing and preserving me before they completely faded."

"Didn't do a great job of healing you," Dean said. "The night you started breathing, you were coughing up blood because you decided you like your internal organs served up extra crispy."

"He did the best he could. Some damages not even Cas can heal."

"At least he managed to take care of the confetti of intestines Lucifer left behind in you," Dean said. "So Chuck just waltzed in and shoved you back into your body?"

Sam laughed at the mental image Dean provided for him. "Not really. He just removed the locks and I guess jump started my organs so that they would be able to heal on their own. He warned me that it wouldn't be pleasant and it'd take some time, but better than the alternative. Although, He did give me the choice."

"The choice?"

"To live or die," Sam explained.

Dean looked at him, and for a rare moment Sam couldn't read his expression. "You made the right choice."

They'd both lived hard lives and made as many bad choices as they did good (probably more bad choices than good), but the hunter lifestyle allowed them to appreciate things that way that normal people couldn't. Trust counted for a lot in a world filled with suspicion and darkness. Life and death being part of the job description made them appreciate living more and mourn death with deeper sorrow than others.

It was a tough job, but easier when they were together. Dean wouldn't leave Sam. Sam wouldn't leave Dean. And they both proved that sentiment over and over through the years. Sam knew that wouldn't change, no matter what 'worst' Chuck had hidden away somewhere that they might have to hunt someday.

Now, however, they were both alive. Their mother was alive. Sam was healing and Lucifer was dead. For now, if even for a day, they were alright.

"Yeah, I know I did."


End file.
